


To Gild the Lily

by iamdemosthenes



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Incest, M/M, Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Slavery, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2020-07-19 10:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19972897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamdemosthenes/pseuds/iamdemosthenes
Summary: It has been nearly a decade since the fall of the king. Murtagh and Eragon travel together, work together, sleep together. They may be far from happy, but that doesn't matter. They didn't think they needed anyone else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @calthehermit!

Eragon leaned forward and pressed himself to the comforting familiarity of Saphira’s scales, shielding himself from the bitter wind. 

_ It would have been warmer if you had agreed to buy those furs in Gil’ead _ _,_ Saphira’s voice hummed in his head.

_ You know I didn’t want to make a high profile of myself _ _,_ Eragon told her.  _ And I don’t appreciate your tone. _

Saphira snickered. Eragon rolled his eyes good naturedly. 

They flew high, leagues above the snow covered ground. The Ninor River snaked a fine line across the land that Saphira followed. It was icy cold this time of year as they headed north, the water harsh and unforgiving. Eragon had elected not to swim in it, even as Saphira had splashed around with Thorn the night before. Dragons. 

A flash of brilliant red at the edge of Eragon’s vision pulled him away from the shelter of Saphira’s neck. He looked over to where Thorn and Murtagh had pulled up alongside them. 

It had been seven years since the downfall of the king, five since Eragon had returned to Alagaesia from the East, and four since he’d reunited with Murtagh. And still, every time he laid eyes on the man Eragon’s heart lept a little in his chest. 

“Thorn sees Daret up ahead!” Murtagh called, his voice smokey hoarse as the wind carried it over to Eragon. “Where do you want to land?”

_ There’s a clearing to the west _ _,_ Saphira projected the image of what she saw to Thorn as well as Eragon. 

“It’s better if we leave the dragons where people won’t gawk,” Eragon shouted back to Murtagh. 

“So you’re saying we  _ don’t  _ want to repeat Gil’ead?”

“I still blame that entirely on you,” Ergaon said, and Murtagh laughed a deep and infectious laugh.

Eragon smiled to himself. He looked back to the ground, where Saphira was slowly making her descent. He squinted, and saw the speck of the city growing bigger by the second.

He felt Saphira’s mood brighten even as they left the sky. Eragon probed her mind gently, wondering why she felt so good. Usually, stopping their flight left her in a sour temperament.

_ I am happy because you’re happy _ _,_ she answered him.  _ Murtagh is good for you. Besides, staying outside the city and away from you is much more bearable when I have Thorn with me. _

Eragon cleared his throat with a blush as Saphira’s thoughts wandered to her mate. 

_ You act like a prude _ _,_ she teased him. _ It’s not as if you and Murtagh aren’t by the campfire every night, going at it like-- _

_ Enough! _ He was suddenly thankful for the cold wind as something to blame his redness on. 

He had himself composed by the time the dragons landed in the clearing with a resounding boom, sweeping the snow away with their massive tails. Eragon slid out of the saddle and stretched his legs with a wince. Murtagh dismounted too, shaking his long hair out of his eyes. Little ice chunks dotted the dark strands, and Eragon stared. He wanted nothing more than to run his hands through that hair and let the snow melt against his skin.

“What are you looking at?” Murtagh asked him, a knowing grin starting to spread across his face.

“Nothing,” Eragon told him quickly, looking away.

Murtagh chuckled, the sound deep and rich. Eragon shivered.

“Are you cold?”

“A little,” Eragon admitted, which was the truth though not why he had shivered.

“Here,” Murtagh stepped forward and shrugged off his outermost coat. “You should have gotten those furs in Gil’ead.”

Saphira snorted her consent in the background, and Eragon mustered up a glare even as he snuggled into Murtagh’s coat. 

“We were already causing too much of a scene, I didn’t want to go into the outskirts of town and leave rumors in our wake the size of the Hadarac.”

“Ah yes, the great Kingkiller, Shadeslayer, Dragon Rider out to purchase some furs. They would have been talking about you for years,” the grin on Murtagh’s face had only grown.

Eragon resisted the urge to stick out his tongue like a child. 

“I could have gone for you, you know,” Murtagh said. His voice grew serious as he stepped forward.

Eragon swallowed. “You hate being recognized more than I do.”

Murtagh’s jaw tensed. Ergaon reached up to rest his gloved hand softly against his brother’s cheek. Murtagh let out a small exhale, like he did every time Eragon touched him. It was as if he still couldn’t believe Eragon would do such a thing. 

Then Eragon took his hand away and the moment had passed. 

“We can head into town whenever you’re ready,” he said, turning to get his bags from Saphira’s back. “We made good time. The council will be expecting us.”

“They’re expecting  _ you _ _,”_ Murtagh grumbled. “The hero of Alagaesia. Not his treacherous brother.”

Eragon sighed. He had lost count of the number of times they had entertained this conversation. Admittedly it had happened a lot more in the early years, where Murtagh and Eragon were still dancing around each other’s feelings and it wasn’t uncommon for the Red Rider to be thrown out of places heavily populated by the former Varden.

“You have been cleared of your crimes, Murtagh,” Eragon said. “And no one knows you are my brother.”

Murtagh was looking down at his feet when Eragon turned back to him. He walked over and grasped the other’s hand, causing Murtagh to look up. His eyes burned. 

“Besides,” Eragon told him. “Where you go, I go.”

A small smile twitched at the corner of Murtagh’s mouth, and Eragon rewarded him with a chaste kiss. 

“Now let’s go sign a treaty.”

*

The city of Daret was filthy. Eragon dodged piles of horse dung melting with grey snow as starving dogs nipped at his heels. On every corner someone huddled wrapped in rotten blankets; sometimes it was multiple people. Eragon felt his heart clench at the sight. The king had fallen, but the empire still had a long way to go.

_ Things are improving, little one, _ Saphira’s voice rang in his mind.  _ You are here to help these people. _

_ Yes, but there must be dozens of cities in poverty like this across the land. How am I expected to bring peace and prosperity while also training new dragon riders? _

_ With time, patience, and lots of help _ _,_ she said.

Murtagh nudged him in the side, startling Eragon out of his spiraling hopelessness. 

“Stop it,” he said.

“Stop what?”

“I know you’re feeling guilty again. We came here to sign a treaty, and make sure these people are paid the subsidies they deserve. Nasuada won’t let them live like this much longer.”

Eragon nodded. “I know. It’s just...”

Murtagh took his hand and squeezed it as Eragon trailed off. “I know.”

Eragon squeezed back, grateful.

They quickly dropped hands as a portly man with straggly gray hair hurried down the street towards them. 

“Hello! Welcome sirs!” he wheezed, out of breath.

Eragon and Murtagh inclined their heads.

“Well met,” Eragon told the man.

The man’s eyes widened as he looked up at Eragon, taking in his slanted eyes and pointed ears. He visibly gulped. 

“I-I am here to escort the Queen’s ambassador to the city council,” the man stumbled over his words, still unable to tear his eyes away from Eragon’s face. 

“That is I, Eragon Shadeslayer,” Eragon said. “This is my fellow Rider, Murtagh. And you are?”

“Huidemar,” the man squeaked out, and hurriedly began to back up. “Follow me, follow me!”

Murtagh and Eragon exchanged small grins but did not comment as they followed Huidemar into the city center. 

The town hall was a dingy building made of dark wood and surrounded by more desolate beggars. Huidemar paid them no mind as he pattered up the front steps and into the building. Inside was a massive chamber and a roaring fire, which instantly set Eragon more at ease. Gathered at a large table was a group of people talking in hushed tones. As Huidemar walked in with Eragon and Murtagh in tow, the conversation rustled to a halt. All eyes swiveled to them. Eragon gulped, getting ready to be the center of attention once again.

A man draped in what was obviously a bearskin stood from the head of the table. His face was laced with lines and pockmarks, and his smile curled shockingly red underneath a hooked nose. 

“Welcome, Shadeslayer,” his voice set Ergaon back on edge, despite the warmth of the fire. “I am Droart Sagardson, leader of Daret.”

“Well met,” Eragon said.

“Well met,” Droart replied. “Pray tell, who is your companion?”

“This is Murtagh, my fellow Rider.”

“Well met,” Murtagh said, his speech low and careful.

An almost-sneer worked its way onto Droart’s face. “I wasn’t aware of another rider travelling with the Kingkiller. Did you fight with the Varden?”

“He serves the Queen,” Eragon answered for Murtagh, trying to keep the coldness from his voice.

Droart obviously picked up on some of it, however, because he gave another grin. 

“My apologies,” he held up his hands. “Come, sit, you are honored guests at our humble council.”

Eragon and Murtagh took their seats, the high wood back chairs keeping Eragon stiff. He wished desperately to grab Murtagh’s hand, but knew that was an impossibility in front of all these people. Something had given him a very uneasy feeling in his gut. The dark chamber flickered with firelight, and Droart’s grin never left his face. He took his seat at the head of the table. 

“We wait now for my trusted advisor, who will only be a minute now,” Droart said.

Eragon nodded and looked around at the other faces of the council. They were all male and all looked to be over the age of forty. He was about to brush out with his mind and sense their intentions, but something stopped him. The twisting in his gut acted as a warning.

Suddenly, the large double doors to the building opened with a bang. A tall figure stood silhouetted by the gray snow outside. It walked forward, and immediately Eragon felt his stomach drop. On instinct, he reached out to Saphira.

_ Saphira? _

_ Little one? _

“There he is,” Droart’s booming voice echoed. “My advisor, Otho.”

_ A man just walked in, I don’t like the looks of him. He feels like dark magic. _

_ Be careful. _

Eragon felt Murtagh bristle almost imperceptibly next to him, and he knew his brother had felt it too. 

Otho was a tall man with skin as white as the field of snow where they’d left the dragons. His eyes sunk dark into his bald skull, and the fur he wore looked like it could make his thin frame collapse. But somehow Eragon knew he would not topple that easily.

“Ah, you must be Shadeslayer,” Otho approached Eragon’s seat, and his tone was like slime down Eragon’s spine. “I have heard the ballads sung in your name.” He turned to Murtagh, then. “I do not believe I’d heard of a  _ second  _ ambassador from the queen.”

If Murtagh was bothered by Otho’s forwardness, he didn’t show it. “Murtagh,” he grunted his name in two short syllables. 

Otho’s eyes glittered suddenly, and Eragon’s queasy feeling only increased. 

“Well met,” Otho whispered. “Well met indeed.”

“Now then,” Droart barked from the head of the table. “I believe we have a tax treaty to negotiate.”

*

Three gruelling hours later, the treaty was signed and sealed back in Eragon’s pack, ready to deliver to Nasuada. He rubbed a tired hand over his face. Politics hadn’t gotten any more fun since he was sixteen and first pledging his fealty. He’d just grown better at knowing what not to say. 

_ Are you alright? _

A voice rang in his head, and he jumped. It wasn’t Saphira, and he immediately zeroed in on Otho. He had wards up, how could the man have infiltrated his carefully guarded mind?

_ It’s Murtagh, dimwit. How are you? _

Eragon flicked his gaze over in surprise. Murtagh never talked to Eragon in his mind. It left his own vulnerable to be examined, and the stone walls he usually had up prevented even the smallest conversation. As Eragon eased back in his chair, he couldn’t help but smile a little to himself. He was fairly certain the only people Murtagh had ever spoken to mentally were him and Thorn. 

_ I’m alright _ , Eragon answered.  _ Just exhausted. _

_ You’re on edge, I’m not a fool, _ was Murtagh’s sharp response. 

Eragon shifted in his seat. It was harder to hide his emotions when he had a mental link open. Especially with someone he cared about as deeply as Murtagh.

_ It’s Otho. I think he is some kind of magician. And he does not strike me as one who supports the Queen. _

_ Aye, _ Murtagh agreed.  _ I saw the way he looked at me. He knows who I am. _

Droart’s sharp laugh cut across the room, and Murtagh abruptly severed their connection. Eragon felt a pang at the loss of contact. 

“Now, to celebrate! We are in the company of the great Riders, and we shall have great mead to greet them!”

Droart clapped his hands and servants scuttled out from the waitings. The council moved to sit around the fire, most of the men lounging across benches and old upholstered chaises. Once drinks were in hand, the conversation grew louder and more boisterous. Eragon stuck close to Murtagh. The both of them drank nothing. Murtagh because he never did, and Eragon because, well, he knew how he got when he was drunk. 

They mingled a little with the council members, but it soon became clear that the only reason anyone was interested in talking to them was curiosity. In a relatively small city like Daret, most people had only heard tales of the epic battles that had raged nearly a decade ago. Eragon was glad that they’d left the dragons somewhere secluded. 

“Shadeslayer.”

Eragon stiffened, and slowly turned around. Otho loomed behind him, even taller than Murtagh. This meant Eragon had to tilt his head far back to meet his hooded eyes. 

“Otho,” Eragon nodded. 

“I am thankful you arrived today. This treaty has been long awaited.”

“Well then I am glad we could be of service.”

Otho’s grin widened at the word ‘we’. “Your companion, have you been travelling with him long?”

Eragon glanced over to where Murtagh was engaged in a conversation with a rather tipsy council member. He looked only slightly annoyed, which of course meant that on the inside he was probably seething with irritation.

“Yes,” Eragon said curtly. “We have.”

Long indeed. Eragon remembered the very first time he’d laid eyes on Murtagh after the man had saved his life, the way his heart had sped up in his chest. So much had changed since then. They’d been enemies, brothers, and now lovers. Eragon didn’t have as deep a connection with anyone on earth as much as Murtagh, barring Saphira of course.

“I must say, you look much different than I expected,” Otho continued. “Do you miss them? The elves? It must be strange being so far away from your kin.”

Eragon shivered despite the fire. 

“Or are you not permitted to enter Ellesmera with  _ him?” _

Eragon looked at him sharply. He felt energy shift and crackle underneath his skin, ready to jump out. It would be so easy, he realized, to end this man. To take his voice or his eyesight, to make him quake in fear and run for the hills. He could do it. It would be simpler than blinking.

“Be careful who you insult in front of me, magician,” Eragon nearly growled. 

Otho’s smile split his white face. “Not an insult, not an insult at all. On the contrary, I am a great admirer of the Red Rider. I am surprised that he would travel with the likes of  _ you.” _

Eragon could only stare. His heart hammered in his chest as he tried to control the anger pulsing through his limbs. 

“Eragon.”

A voice in his ear, a hand on his back. Eragon blinked up at the face of his brother.

“Murtagh,” Otho let his tone drip with sweetness. “I’ll leave you two. Oh, and Eragon, enjoy the show tonight.”

The advisor left then, and went out through a servant’s door. Eragon watched him with a flaming gaze.

“Eragon,” Murtagh repeated. “What happened?”

“The bastard was trying to get to me,” Eragon growled. “He is one of the Vantr I  _ know  _ it.”

The Vantr was the name the elves gave to the last of Galbatorix’s supporters scattered throughout Alagaesia. They met secretly, plotted in sparse locations, and sometimes caused riots in cities like Uru’baen. Nasuada and Arya were working to wipe them out when they could, and it was often Eragon’s job to imprison them as they were a majority magic users. 

“This far north?” Murtagh asked. “Are you sure he’s not simply...”

“He’s more than that, and you know it too,” Eragon said. “I would infiltrate his mind but it is far too crowded here.”

“What will you do?”

“I’m not sure. Possibly lure him away somehow for questioning, or confront him outside directly.”

“Do you want to leave Daret?”

Eragon turned to him sharply, shock written across his face. “What?”

Murtagh shrugged. “If there’s one Vantr here, there has to be more. I am willing to bet it would be almost half of the town, and  _ all  _ of the council if my conversations so far have been anything to go by. We can’t imprison all of them. We would be leaving this city to die.”

Eragon swallowed. He knew Murtagh was right. Sometimes, he had learned in his past few years as a peacemaker, the best thing to do was to walk away. But that never made it any easier. 

“We should at least stay the night,” Eragon murmured reluctantly. “Leaving early would be undiplomatic and rude.”

Murtagh looked at him, a strange light on his face.

“What?”

“You’ve matured since I met you,” he said.  _ And I really want to kiss you, _ echoed after in Eragon’s mind. 

Eragon hoped the room was too dark for anyone to see his furious blush. 

“Everyone, everyone,” Droart clapped his hands and the talking in the room buzzed to a slow halt. “As a gift to express our gratitude to the Riders, I am proud to present a performance prepared by my advisor, Otho.”

Scattered applause filled the room. Eragon and Murtagh did not join in. Then, from out the same door Otho had exited, he appeared again. This time he was followed by a group of people cloaked in shadow. Eragon saw a couple musicians ready their instruments as Otho raised his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he purred, and his eyes met Eragon’s across the room. “For your pleasure, the Dancers of Daret.”

The room lit up with hoots and hollers as the group of people behind Otho stepped into the light. They were women, Eragon realized in a flash. Women clad in next to nothing. He gulped and had the uncomfortable urge to shield his eyes. 

Music started in the background, a heavy northern melody that Eragon thought wouldn’t have sounded too out of place at Carvahall. But the dancers, on the other hand, would have scandalized his old village. The men seated around the fire didn’t seem too scandalized. In fact, Eragon flitted his gaze around the room and only saw predatory hunger in their faces. He felt ill.

The dancers swayed their way to the center, moving in synchronization. Their hips jangled with metal disks and their ankles and wrists shimmered with false jewels. 

Suddenly, a voice whispered in Eragon’s ear. It took all of his willpower not to jump.

“If you miss the elves too terribly, Shadeslayer,” Otho sneered. “I think I have something that can satisfy you for tonight.”

“Wha--” Eragon started, but was immediately cut short. 

A figure danced out from the doorway, and the dancers parted for it. When it stepped into the light of the fire, Eragon couldn’t hold back a gasp. He heard Murtagh’s soft inhale next to him.

It was an elf. Of that there was no doubt.

He had rich dark skin adorned with metal jewelry all the way up to a golden band around his neck. His hair was a shocking white and fell in curls past his chin, a color Eragon had never seen before. And he was terribly, alarmingly beautiful.

The elf spun to the center of the dancers, obviously the main attraction. The men around the room salvated at his exoticness, but the elf did not seem fazed. In fact, Eragon narrowed his gaze, were his eyes... closed? 

When the elf started to dance, it was as if time itself stood still. 

Eragon suddenly felt fingers lace with his own, and he glanced over at Murtagh. Murtagh’s gaze was fixed on the elf, eyes swimming with something unreadable. Eragon looked back at the dancers and felt his heart pound in his chest. 

The elf moved with more grace than he had ever seen. Each twist of his torso, each extension of his arm seemed to be like music itself. The human dancers paled in comparison to the dark skinned creature wreathed in gold. Eragon found himself gripping tight to Murtagh’s hand. Murtagh gripped back just as hard. 

It was on the third song, the human dancers clearly starting to tire, when the elf opened his eyes. And he looked right at Eragon. 

Eragon gasped at what he saw.

They were a brilliant gold -- and filled with an agonizing pain. And when they landed on Eragon, they widened. They darted to Eragon’s ears then back to his face before the elf twirled away again, breaking their contact. Eragon didn’t realize he hadn’t been breathing until the elf looked away.

_ Murtagh _ , he cried out in his mind, barraging the other’s mind barricade.  _ There’s something wrong with the elf! _

_ I see it too, _ Murtagh answered, thoughts tinged with a simmering anger.  _ Reach out to him. _

_ But if Otho is protecting the dancers... _

_ There is nothing he can do to you, _ Murtagh said.  _ You are the most powerful sorcerer in Alagaesia.  _

Eragon reached out with his mind carefully. When it brushed against a vast consciousness, the elf stumbled in his dancing and his uncanny gold eyes darted about the room. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice. Not even Otho. 

_ Who are you? _ Eragon asked in the ancient language, at the same time projecting peace and comfort into his thoughts.

The response crashed into Eragon like a tidal wave. He stifled a gasp, and Murtagh looked over at him with a worried expression. The elf’s mind was unlike any Eragon had ever felt. Colors, images, feelings all overwhelmed him, and each screamed the same thing: desolation. 

_ Please, tell me how I can help you, _ Eragon said desperately.  _ I am a dragon rider and a friend, let me help you. _

But the elf did not give him an answer. In fact, it slowly dawned on Eragon that there was not a single word to be found in the elf’s mind. It was only images and emotions; there was no language attached. The elf continued to dance, and once again he spun around so his eyes could land on Eragon’s. 

They were deep, and filled with aching. Eragon wanted nothing more than to pull the elf away from the dancers and into a backbreaking hug. 

It was over all too quickly. The music stopped as one of the council members fell to the floor drunk, and Droart heaved a laugh. Otho slunk over to usher the dancers back out of the room. 

Eragon, finding himself thoroughly shaken, turned to Murtagh. He wanted to reach out to Saphira, but felt he couldn’t properly convey what had just happened. 

“The elf,” Murtagh whispered. “Is he...”

The question trailed off into nothing and everything. Eragon simply shook his head helplessly, even though that wasn’t a proper answer. 

“Sirs?” a weasely voice piped up from behind them.

Huidemar stood before them, wringing his hands. “If it is pleasing to you, I can show you to your chambers for the night.”

Eragon opened his mouth to protest. The elf! They had to find him and help him! But Murtagh caught his arm before he could speak.

“That would be suitable, Huidemar,” Murtagh said calmly. 

Eragon reached out his thoughts to ask Murtagh what he was doing, but was met with the usual iron border around Murtagh’s mind. He huffed, and followed Huidemar out of the town hall. He was glad to be leaving Otho behind. But the thought of the elf caused Eragon to almost turn back, Murtagh be damned. 

Outside, the cold accosted them with vigor. Eragon pulled Murtagh’s coat tighter around himself, burying his nose in the fur. The musk was familiar. It comforted him slightly as they walked out into the dark and dirty streets.

Eragon grew more uneasy with each step. They were leaving someone behind, someone who needed help. And if two of the most powerful people in Alagaesia couldn’t help the elf, then who could?

He took a deep breath, and contacted Saphira.

_ I’m about to do something dangerous, _ he told her.  _ Stay where you are.  _

He felt her anger without her having to say anything, but he blocked her out. He needed to focus. He grabbed onto Murtagh’s hand without explanation and closed his eyes. 

If Otho really was a magician, Eragon was about to find out quickly.

He spread his mind out like a blanket, sensing everyone and everything. With a quick exhale he had encompassed the entire town. He only had to search for a second. There -- a bright flare behind the town hall. He knew it was Otho immediately. He felt the magician’s shock and indignation at being touched in the mind as he began to throw up barriers. Eragon plowed through his defenses like butter. Otho tried to launch an attack, but his spell didn’t breach Eragon’s outermost wards. 

He searched for other magic the magician was using, and found what he was looking for. Otho had a permanent spell cast over a group of people. Eragon recognized the elf’s consciousness even though he’d only come into contact with it for a moment. It was still just as wild, disorganized and pained. 

Eragon’s eyes flew open. Murtagh was already staring at him, grey eyes curious and a little worried. 

“They’re behind the town hall,” Eragon said, paying no mind to Huidemar. “Otho is a magician. He is keeping the elf under some sort of spell. We  _ have  _ to go to him Murtagh.”

Murtagh gave a hardened sigh. “Why are you always so stubborn about the dangerous things?”

“He’s barely a magician, you could stop him in a heartbeat.”

“Perhaps, but we don’t know what he could do to that elf.”

Eragon swallowed. “Come on.”

“What is the plan?”

“I don’t know, but we best think of something. He knows we’re coming.”

They turned back towards the hall, ignoring Huidemar’s questioning protests. The wind picked up in the dark, lanterns flickering in the grimy windows they passed. Eragon felt his heart in his throat. Something gripped him as he pictured the sad, golden eyes of the dark skinned elf. What elf could possibly be kept under the spell of a lesser magician? 

Eragon skidded to a halt, ice soaking through his boots. Murtagh stopped behind him, Zar’roc already drawn. Eragon rested his hand on the hilt of Brisingr. 

Otho stood before them in the alleyway, a sinister smile curling on his lips. He held the elf against his chest, a knife against the creature’s throat. 

“Ah, I knew you’d be back for him,” Otho sneered. “Too beautiful to ignore, eh? He’s very obedient, will do whatever you ask. As long as he has this on of course.”

Otho stroked the golden collar around the elf’s neck. Eragon’s eyes narrowed. That must be where the spell was concentrated. 

“Slaves,” Murtagh suddenly spoke from beside Eragon. The shaking anger in his voice nearly cowed Eragon. Even Otho took a step back, knuckles white around the hilt of the knife. “You’re keeping those dancers as slaves.”

Behind Otho, Eragon could sense the shivering souls of the rest of the dancers. 

“The slave trade was abolished the day Galbatorix died,” Eragon said, not taking his eyes off Otho and the elf. 

Otho grinned. “And yet, who came to liberate them? You? The great Shadeslayer, Kingkiller, hero of Alagaesia?”

Eragon felt tears prick at his eyes. It was the voice of his worst nightmares and fears come to life. He hadn’t done enough. Keeper of the peace, gods, how had he been keeping the peace? He couldn’t get his mind around words, but he didn’t have to. Murtagh stepped forward, eyes dark and dangerous. His sword glittered in the night.

“This is your last chance to let them go,” Murtagh whispered, voice soft. 

“Let them  _ go?” _ Otho barked out a laugh. “How has the Red Rider fallen so far?”

Murtagh twisted his sword in his hand. Otho’s eyes flicked to where Eragon stood. Something like understanding passed across his face. 

“Ah, I see,” he hissed. “The Queen’s pet Rider has become Morzansson’s little whore--”

He couldn’t get another word out. For Eragon heard Murtagh murmur a word so quickly in the ancient language he couldn’t catch it. Suddenly, Otho’s face seemed to be turning even paler. He let go of the knife; the sound of metal clanging against the stone rang through the alleyway. The elf collapsed to the ground like a doll. Otho reached up to claw at his throat, eyes growing more and more panicked. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, searching for air. 

“Murtagh,” Eragon looked over to where his half brother glared forward. 

Murtagh stood with a wicked glower on his face. He was tense, and when Eragon tried to brush his mind it was even more harshly guarded than usual. He swallowed. It was in moments like these where Eragon remembered facing Murtagh as his enemy, fearing for his life at the tip of his sword. 

“Murtagh,” Eragon repeated, louder this time. “Let him go, don’t kill him, he can set the slaves free.”

But Murtagh didn’t stop. It became clear that he wasn’t even hearing Eragon when Otho’s eyelids started to flutter. 

“Murtagh!”

But it was too late. Otho collapsed to the ground, his light gone out in Eragon’s mind. Eragon choked at the loss of energy, and he clutched at his chest. Murtagh seemed to come to his senses a moment later, shaking out his dark hair. He blinked over at Eragon, who looked at him in shock.

“You killed him,” he said, hushed. “You  _ killed  _ him.”

“He called you a whore,” Murtagh said bluntly. “He was Vantr. He kept  _ slaves _ .”

Eragon was no stranger to death, but it still cut him raw every time he witnessed it. The feeling of a whole person being extinguished... he gulped and tried to compose himself. It was Murtagh. Murtagh who loved him and only killed for a reason. Only killed for a reason  _ now,  _ anyway. 

“I’m not sorry for his death,” Murtagh said quietly. “But I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Eragon nodded with a stone in his throat. “Let’s get the elf.”

“I’ll go make sure the other dancers are free of Otho’s spell.”

Eragon shook himself and started to approach the elf. He searched out for Saphira on the way.

_ I’m safe, _ he told her.  _ Murtagh and I will be out soon.  _

Her only response was simmering anger.

He knelt down next to the elf. His knees got instantly soaked with melted snow and he reached out to gently turn the elf over on his back. Eragon exhaled at the sight of him. Gods, he was beautiful. His eyes were closed, large and slanted. His pointed ears stuck out from his thin head, tangled in his brilliant white hair. Eragon reached out on a whim and tucked a strand behind his ear. 

Then there was an unexpected flash of gold. The elf had opened his eyes. Eragon blinked at him, unable to look away.

“Hello,” he breathed. 

The elf blinked back.

“I’m Eragon,” he said, this time not using the ancient language. “What’s your name?” 

The elf said nothing, merely blinking slowly. His breathing was a little erratic. Eragon bit his lip, then decided to try something. He reached out with his mind, this time not relying on words. He sent the elf a feeling, the most recent one of comfort he could remember: snuggling into Murtagh’s coat right after leaving the town hall. 

The reaction was instantaneous. A calm seemed to settle over the elf, and his breathing slowed to a more reasonable rate. His conscious tentatively brushed Eragon’s in return, and Eragon’s mind was flooded with the color green and the smell of bread baking. Comfort. Eragon found himself smiling. 

The elf’s golden eyes blinked slowly one last time, and then they were closed. Eragon did a quick scan of his body, knowing that he was probably extremely injured, malnourished, or both. At least he wasn’t dead. Eragon ignored the body of the magician lying next to them as he scooped the elf into his arms _. _ He was light, the smallest elf Eragon had ever seen actually, so it was not any strain to pick him up. 

Just then, Murtagh emerged back into the alleyway.

“The rest of the dancers are free. The spells over them broke with Otho’s death.”

Eragon sighed with relief. “Did you send them off?”

Murtagh nodded. “Summoned some silver for each of them. They’re going to be alright if they make it to Yazuac. What of the elf?”

Eragon shook his head. “I think the spell is kept in the collar. It might be impairing his ability to speak.”

“Can we get it off?”

Murtagh approached the elf in Eragon’s arms, tracing the gold metal band around his neck. 

“There’s no seam,” he muttered. “I think it’s magically sealed. If we don’t know the exact enchantment put on it, we might not be able to remove it without hurting him.”

“We just have to get out of Daret,” Eragon said. “Get back to the dragons. We can plan from there.”

They both looked at each other for a moment, things unsaid passing between them. Both of them knew that at some point, they would have to take this elf back to Ellesmera. A place where Arya ruled queen, and she loathed Murtagh with a passion. 

“Alright, Thorn is worried anyway. Let’s go.”

“Saphira is going to kill me,” Eragon grimaced.

“And I don’t blame her,” Murtagh muttered at him, flicking him on the temple. “You always go headfirst into danger.”

“I’m not sixteen anymore,” Eragon huffed. “I can handle a lot more than I used to.”

“Just because you’re a Kingkiller doesn’t mean you’ve become less stubborn.”

Eragon swallowed, and looked down at the unconscious elf cradled in his arms. 

“I didn’t kill him,” he said softly. “He killed himself.”

Silence reigned deep, and Murtagh placed a hand on Eragon’s shoulder. He felt the warmth even through the fur. 

“You’re not a killer, Eragon.”

If Eragon had a free hand, he would have swiped at his eyes.

“Let’s go,” he swallowed. “I have no doubt this elf needs some healing.”


	2. Chapter 2

Murtagh slid out of Thorn’s saddle, wincing as a twang raced up the scar on his back. It always hurt after riding for too long. 

_ Are you alright? _ Thorn asked him, concern always present even after all these years.

_ Fine, _ Murtagh answered.  _ Just need to stretch my legs. _

The cold bit ferociously at Murtagh’s ears and he resisted the urge to shiver. He could cast a spell to keep warm, but he really didn’t need the drain on his energy right now. He shouldn’t have given his damn coat to Eragon. 

Eragon had landed a couple paces away, Saphira obviously talking privately to Thorn as they looked at each other. Murtagh swallowed as he laid eyes on his brother. His hair was tousled from the wind, cheeks bright red and eyes sparkling. He looked young, and beautiful, and Murtagh’s heart ached for him. 

Eragon beamed him a smile, and Murtagh managed a twitch of his lips in response. He internally cringed. Eragon turned and helped the elf off Saphira’s back, and Murtagh’s almost-smile dropped from his face. It had been two days since they had left Daret, and the elf had stayed in a fitful state of waking dreams. He and Eragon had tried every divination spell they could think of to try and find the nature of the golden collar, but it still managed to elude them. As a result, the elf stayed silent. 

He communicated with Eragon, if it could be called communication, in a series of emotions and pictures. But Murtagh refused to open his mind to the strange creature who seemed to be stealing all of Eragon’s attention and time. 

“I think he’s feeling better,” Eragon said brightly. “He was awake most of the way here.”

Of course. The elf again. Murtagh turned to look at him. He admittedly did look better. His skin wasn’t quite so dry looking, it actually seemed nice and smooth. His hair was free of tangles, and his beautiful (no,  _ weird)  _ gold eyes were wide and open. Upon seeing Murtagh, he shied away and took a tentative step behind Eragon. Murtag sighed. It had been this way ever since the elf had first woken up. Murtagh knew he had a brooding face, and he also knew that Eragon possessed features that were more likely a lot more familiar and friendly to the elf. But something still sent a pang through his heart every time the elf elected to cling to Eragon’s arm. He decided to ignore it.

“Good,” Murtagh said gruffly, brushing past the two of them. “I’ll start a fire. Thorn saw some snow rabbit from the skies.”

That was another strange thing about the elf. The first night they spent together, he and Eragon discovered that the elf ate  _ meat. _ He knew even Eragon disliked it when he could help it, so it was a surprise to see the tiny waif of an elf tuck into a roasted rabbit like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Come to think of it, perhaps he  _ hadn’t  _ eaten in days.

Murtagh killed two rabbits with barely a word, and started the fire in much the same manner. He was warming his hands, silently griping about nothing, when Thorn spoke in his mind.

_ Eragon is coming over to you. You need to talk. _

Murtagh ground his teeth.  _ Stay out of my business. _

_ Your business is my business, _ Thorn mused.  _ Now get over this lover’s quarrel before Saphira and I have to make you shake hands like children. _

_ Lover’s-- _ Murtagh started indignantly, but his thoughts were cowed by the sight of Eragon’s approaching form.

“Hello,” Eragon started, going for that lopsided smile of his. “You did a good job with the fire.”

“Where’s the elf?” Murtagh had to strain to keep from snapping.

“He’s by the dragons. He likes talking to them.”

“I’m sure he does.”

Eragon took a step forward, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong, Murtagh?”

Murtagh looked into the fire, relishing the way his eyes burned. 

“Nothing,” he eventually spat out.

“I know you well enough by now to know that it’s not nothing,” Eragon scoffed.

Murtagh whipped his head around, not able to keep the glare off his face. Eragon took a surprised step back. “Do you? Do you really know me?”

“Murtagh...”

“No, you know what? It doesn’t matter. Go back to your elf.”

Eragon was silent, but made no move to leave him. Murtagh continued to glare at the fire. He was not about to apologize.

“You’re jealous,” Eragon finally spoke softly. “That’s what this is about.”

“I am not _ jealous,” _ Murtagh spat the ugly word out.

He was an adult. A mature adult. More mature than Eragon at any rate.

Eragon walked over to him, his feet crunching across the snow. Murtagh didn’t look at him, not until Eragon placed a palm on his cheek and lightly turned his face away from the fire. Murtagh reluctantly looked down at his brother. When he did, the gently care in Eragon’s eyes nearly tore him apart. For the hundredth time, the thousandth time, Murtagh asked himself what he had done to deserve such fantastic love.

“Murtagh, I’m never going to leave you,” Eragon said the words in the ancient language, causing Murtagh’s breathe to catch in his throat. “Ever.”

Murtagh felt something swell up inside him all at once, and he stumbled forward. Eragon’s arms were already waiting. Murtagh squeezed his eyes shut as he pressed his face into Eragon’s shoulder, desperately begging himself not to cry. Gods, it felt good to be held. 

They stayed in each other’s embrace for a long while, neither feeling the need to break apart. When they did, Murtagh leaned forward to rest his forehead against Eragon’s. They shared the same breath, intimate and close, and Murtagh never wanted the moment to leave.

“I love you,” he said, voice hoarse.

It wasn’t often he spoke the words, and he remembered how it had taken the better part of three years for him to say it at all. So they burned even more true now, whispered past his lips and towards Eragon’s.

“I love you too you jealous fool,” Eragon murmured.

Murtagh snorted. He leaned down to close the gap between them, pressing their lips together. Eragon sighed at the contact, and Murtagh let his heart rest once again.

“Now let’s eat some wretched rabbit before we starve out here in the cold,” Eragon said as they pulled away.

He gave Murtagh one last peck on the lips before darting away, and Murtagh savored every second. 

And even though the elf sat close to Eragon at the fire, Murtagh realized that it wasn’t all that bad. Not that bad at all.

*

“There’s a band of people a few leagues ahead, I can feel them,” Eragon said as he trudged back to their campsite.

Murtagh looked up from where he was rolling up his pack. “And?”

“And, from what I can tell they’re bandits,” Eragon answered. “Someone needs to go stop them.”

Murtagh looked at him with all the incredulity he could muster. “Your nobleness is absolutely astounding Eragon. You’d waste time to land and arrest a couple of traveling bandits because what, they might steal something in the future?”

“No, actually, I am not being the hero for once. Saphira and I talked about it,” Eragon grumbled back. “They’re directly in our path to Ellesmera. There’s a good chance we will make camp somewhere around them, or they could try shooting the dragons out of the sky. It would be easier if they could be diverted from the path by a spell or two, that way we don’t even have to worry about dealing with them.”

Murtagh understood the logic in a flash, and groaned as he got to his feet. “Alright then. Thorn and I will take care of it.”

“No.”

He paused, then turned slowly to blink at Eragon. Eragon just stared back at him, one eyebrow cocked, as if to say, ‘so what will you do about it?’

_ “No?” _

“I’ll go,” Eragon said. “You’ve already done enough killing on this trip.”

Murtagh felt that bite a little deeper than he expected. He swallowed, trying to brush it off. “You think I can’t handle something without killing people?”

“No, I would just rather not risk it,” Eragon told him.

And even though Murtagh knew it was the truth, it didn’t hurt any less to hear. He nodded once and didn’t let it show on his face.

“Right. How long will it take?”

“An hour, at most. You can stay here and watch over the elf.”

The elf, gods. Murtagh had forgotten. He turned to look at the creature, who sat beside Thorn in the snow. He’d been watching their conversation with wide gold eyes, the white curls framing his face making him look almost angelic. Murtagh forced himself to look away. It was unfair how beautiful he was. Not like it mattered at all. 

Murtagh almost considered opening his mind to Eragon just so he could silently yell at him. But that was too much vulnerability for not a legitimate enough reason. Besides, he wasn’t even sure the elf could understand speech. Murtagh could have yelled out loud and there wouldn’t have been a difference.

Murtagh just sighed and nodded. “Hurry back, alright?”

Eragon stepped over so he could press a quick kiss to Murtagh’s mouth. If Murtagh found himself chasing the contact even after Eragon was pulling away, he would be the last to admit it. 

Soon, he was alone with Thorn and the elf. He huffed, not willing to look at his companion.

_ You’re being immature, _ Thorn echoed in his head.

Murtagh narrowed his gaze and kicked at a pile of snow. 

_ I don’t like elves, _ was his only response.

_ You don’t like pretty elves that take away all of Eragon’s attention. _

Murtagh turned to splutter a protest at his dragon, when his foot caught on a rock embedded deep in the ground. He flailed his arms but to no avail. He landed face down in a puddle of icy water, which splashed all over his clothes. He cried out, pushing himself up from the ground only to soak his arms in the water as well.

“Oh blast it!” he cursed to himself.

Thorn snickered out loud, smoke curling from his large nostrils.  _ Serves you right. _

“You stuff it,” he grumbled at his dragon as he pushed himself to his feet. 

He was startled by a figure quite close to him, gold eyes boring concern straight through Murtagh’s skull. The elf stared at him questioningly, his hand hovering a hair's breadth from Murtagh’s shoulder as if unsure whether or not he could touch.

“I’m alright,” Murtagh told him. “Just soaked to the bone.”

He shivered as he said the words, and began to take off his layers. He could have done the spell with them on, but then he would have run the risk of drying the water out of his  _ body,  _ and Murtagh couldn’t have that. The elf stepped back to give him some space. 

As soon as he stood bare chested, he tossed his clothing into a pile. The quicker the better. His teeth were already starting to chatter. 

“Adurna eitha,” he murmured, imbuing his words with his magic and intent. 

A small drain on his energy, and then the water from his clothing twisted into a stream and leaked away. When he reached down, they were dry to the touch. Sighing with relief, Murtagh went to put them back on but stopped when he saw the elf. 

“What?” he asked the creature, who only continued to stare at him in what looked to be amazement. “Have you not seen magic before? I thought all elves knew magic.”

As usual, the elf showed no signs of understanding him. He just continued to stare. It took a moment, but Murtagh eventually realized the elf wasn’t staring at the water syphoned from his clothing. He was staring at  _ Murtagh.  _

_ Your scar, _ Thorn said. 

Murtagh reached to his back on instinct, feeling for the familiar sickening bump of the ropey scar that extended across his spine. The elf’s eyes followed his movements with unblinking eyes.

“Courtesy of my father,” Murtagh told him, even though he knew the elf wouldn’t understand. 

He just continued to look on, tracing the scar with his golden gaze. 

“It’s not nice to stare,” Murtagh said. 

Then the elf’s eyes flicked to his own, and something so deep swam within them that Murtagh was almost --  _ almost  _ \-- tempted to open his mind. Just so he could see what that elf was thinking. 

He then proceeded to do something very unexpected. The elf tugged at the hem of his own shirt, one of Eragon’s that was so big on him it was almost comical. He had it over his head in an instant and Murtagh’s throat was suddenly very dry.

“What...” he swallowed. “What are you doing?”

Soon the elf was just as bare chested as Murtagh. He averted his eyes, for some reason not wanting to see the elf like... like that. He cleared his throat to himself and tapped out a frazzled rhythm against his knee. Why did that elf have to be so very strange?

_ Look, Murtagh, _ Thorn’s voice rang in his head.

So Murtagh stole himself and glanced at the elf. At first, nothing seemed amiss. Then Murtagh’s eyes focused, and he found himself inhaling sharply. For the elf was covered in scars.

It must have been too dark to notice back in the city, because the elf had certainly been scantily clad then. But now, in full daylight, there was no mistaking the silvery, jagged lines that cut across his dark skin. They wrapped thick around his chest, some larger than others and some certainly stretching around to his back. Murtagh could tell some of them were inflicted by blade, and some through other means. A whip seemed the most plausible. 

He took a step forward almost involuntarily, a strangled noise caught in the back of his throat. Some of these scars were just as old as Murtagh’s. How long had the elf endured such torture?

“Gods,” Murtagh whispered. “I... I’m sorry.”

The elf blinked at him, and Murtagh suddenly recognized the look in his eyes. Understanding. It was so prominent Murtagh nearly choked. He was used to loathing, to suspicion, to bias, and even on occasion pity. He had never had someone look at him and truly  _ understand.  _ The elf knew what it was like to ache for freedom, to long for a mind that belonged to only himself. Murtagh felt tears prick at his eyes.

Seized by a sudden urge, he spoke in a hoarse voice. 

“I’m Murtagh Morzansson,” he said. “What is your name?”

The elf blinked owlishly, looking smaller than ever with his ribs protruding from his scarred chest. Murtagh swallowed, trying to think of something different. How could he communicate without having to open his mind?

An idea gripped him, and he pressed a hand to his own chest. He thumped it twice.

“Murtagh,” he said simply, hand still pressed to his sternum. “Murtagh.”

It took a second, but the elf tentatively reached out a hand. The elf touched the tips of his fingers to Murtagh’s bare chest, and a violent shiver wracked Murtagh’s body. It was like a spell had been cast, but no energy had been drained. He and the elf looked into each other’s eyes.

“Murtagh,” he repeated his own name again, the elf’s fingers still like lightning where they touched his skin. 

The elf took his fingers away, and Murtagh could breathe again. He then reached a hand slowly towards the elf. He flinched away, but when Murtagh made no sudden moves he didn’t turn. Then Murtagh was resting the pads of his own fingers against the elf’s chest. He felt the rise and fall of his ribcage a little too quickly to be natural.

“Who are you?” Murtagh asked the elf, and he knew the question was burning in his eyes. “Who are you?”

The elf, who looked younger than even Eragon and had a torso riddled with scars, stared back at Murtagh with desperate eyes. Pleading for him to comprehend something that he could not.

Eventually, they pulled away from each other. The elf turned then, and started crawling away on the ground, not looking at Murtagh. He seemed to be searching for something. He didn’t go to tug his shirt back on, even as Murtagh did. 

“What are you doing?” Murtagh asked, but the elf didn’t even look up.

After he had his layers back on and was sufficiently warmer, Murtagh cleared a space on the ground where he could sit and watch the elf. A fascination with the beautiful creature had cropped up in Murtagh’s head, whether he liked to admit it or not.

_ He understood you,  _ Thorn sniffed, lowering his head so he was eye level with Murtagh.

_ I know, _ is all Murtagh could say.

The elf suddenly seemed to find what he was looking for. He gasped in obvious delight and cupped his hands to the earth. Murtagh tried craning his neck to see what the other had found, but the elf kept it cradled to his chest. Then, to Murtagh’s surprise, the elf turned around and made his way over to the dragon and his rider. He sat down in front of Murtagh, eyes glinting, and he held out his cupped hands.

Rested in them was a small yellow flower, nearly crushed to death by the snow but somehow still blooming in the winter. 

“Wow,” Murtagh said. “It’s a miracle you found this.”

The elf took the flower and placed it into Murtagh’s outstretched hand. Murtagh gulped at the contact. Then the elf pressed his own hands back to his chest, all the while looking at Murtagh imploringly.

“Thank you?” Murtagh said, unsure of how to respond.

The elf looked a bit frustrated. He touched his hands again to the flower Murtagh was now holding. Then, he touched his own chest. It dawned on Murtagh in a brilliant flash.

“You’re telling me your name,” he realized. “You’re... yellow. No, a flower. Flower?”

A slow smile crept onto the elf’s face, completely transforming him. Murtagh could only stare; he didn’t think he had ever seen him smile before. Murtagh thought he looked like sunlight.


	3. Chapter 3

Eragon trudged over to where Murtagh had obviously started a fire, feet dragging. It had taken longer than he had expected to divert the bandits with a couple of well placed spells, and to make certain they would actually follow Eragon’s new intended path. He was drained, refusing to draw on Aren or Saphira for energy unless it was an emergency. The sky was darkening to an inky blue by the time he found his companions again.

Eragon had to blink several times at what he saw.

_ Is Murtagh... _ he projected to Saphira.

_ Not trying to kill the elf? _ She supplied.

_ Exactly. _

Murtagh was sitting only a couple hands away from the elf, and they seemed to be... talking? Or at least Murtagh was talking. The elf was looking at him with curious eyes, gold like twin lamps in the firelight. Eragon could only stare. When was the last time he’d seen Murtagh voluntarily hold a conversation with someone? Especially someone who, the last time Eragon had seen them, Murtagh had seemed antagonistic to at best?

He cleared his throat as he approached, and Murtagh looked up.

“Eragon!”

The brightness in his voice was so startling Eragon almost asked him what was wrong. 

“Murtagh,” he said slowly, unable to keep a grin off his face. “How goes it?”

“It goes well,” Murtagh smiled.  _ Smiled. _ “Flower knows how to skin a rabbit.”

Eragon looked back and forth between the two of them. The elf turned to look at Eragon then, his face lighting up ever so slightly. Eragon felt his heart swell. He couldn’t explain the soft spot that had grown in his heart for the gorgeous little elf, but all he wanted to do was protect him. 

“Flower?” he asked. 

The elf’s consciousness brushed against his own as he said the word. Eragon saw a series of images flash through his mind: the elf touching his own chest, a wilted yellow flower in the palm of Murtagh’s hand, and the sense of something round and complete. 

_ “You’re _ Flower,” Eragon gasped. 

Flower smiled a small, shy smile. Then he stood from his place by the fire and took a step towards Eragon. He stood about a head shorter than him, his strange white hair nearly glowing. Eragon gulped as Flower reached out a hand and pressed it to his chest. They looked at each other, and there was a question in Flower’s eyes. 

“Eragon. I’m Eragon.”

This seemed to satisfy the elf, and he went back to his place beside Murtagh. Eragon went to sit on Murtagh’s left. His brother nudged him with a shoulder as soon as he sat down.

“How did it go with the bandits?”

“Good,” Eragon told him honestly. “They won’t be giving us any trouble.”

“With the great Shadeslayer by my side how could they--”

Eragon shoved him roughly, rolling his eyes. Murtagh chuckled, and Eragon laid his head down on the other’s shoulder with a sigh. 

“You’re in a good mood,” he pointed out.

“And?” Murtagh asked. 

“That’s rare,” Eragon said. “I’m just glad.”

Murtagh gave a non committal hum, and they sat and watched the fire crackle. The other two had already eaten their rabbit, so Eragon reluctantly tucked in. He had planned to buy some bread and cheese from a market in Daret, but their exit had been rather unplanned and hasty. So he was stuck with the meat, which he usually tried to avoid. When he ate, he thought about everything other than the fact that he was consuming what was once a living creature.

He was just finishing up when the elf -- Flower, now, Eragon reminded himself -- projected his foreign thoughts. He played a memory for Eragon, one of the night they had met. It was when the instruments had started playing and the dancers had first entered the town hall. To make sure Eragon understood correctly, he played one of his own memories. A distant one from when he was young in Carvahall and Horst had gathered a group of men together to play music at the tavern. Flower answered in a burst of happy orange and the feeling of waking up well rested. Eragon blinked out of his mind, shaking his head at how wildly the elf communicated. 

“Flower wants music,” he informed Murtagh.

“What? How do you know?”

“He told me, more or less,” Eragon shrugged. “So you know what that means.”

Murtagh paled, his eyes going wide. Eragon simply grinned back at him.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Eragon--”

Eragon rested his head back on Murtagh’s shoulder, tilting his chin up so that he could meet his eyes. They were so close that Murtagh’s eyes were tracing over the light freckles Eragon knew sprinkled his face. He could count Murtagh’s dark eyelashes, and see the flecks of blue that hid in his grey eyes. 

“Please?” he whispered.

Murtagh heaved a heavy sigh. He turned his face away from Eragon and looked back into the fire. Eragon desperately wished to know his thoughts. He waited with baited breath and made eye contact with Flower. Flower blinked his large eyes. 

A couple minutes of silence, and then...

_ “The blackest night with stars so fair,” _ Murtagh’s voice slipped huskily into the air.

He stoutly refused to look at Eragon as he sang, opting instead to stare at the fire. Flower gave a small inhale, and Eragon looked at the elf. He was staring at Murtagh with his mouth open slightly. Eragon smiled to himself, knowing the feeling. The first time he had heard Murtagh sing he had nearly cried.

_ “Fell once upon her midnight hair,” _ Murtagh continued, voice carrying out into the crackling darkness.  _ “And in the moon around her belt, she kept the heart of Hins’lafelt.” _

As Murtagh kept singing, Flower gradually got to his feet. He took a slow step towards the fire, and closed his eyes. Eragon watched as the elf slowly raised an arm to the sky, then back down to his side. And with that one small movement, Eragon was mesmerized.

Flower danced differently than he had in Daret. His body moved like water to Murtagh’s low voice. Around and around the fire he went, weaving some kind of spell without using magic at all. When Eragon looked over at Murtagh, he was surprised to find the singer looking straight at Flower too. He kept singing, longer than Eragon had ever heard him sing, and the elf danced through every single note. 

It could have been hours later or merely minutes, Eragon did not know. But eventually Murtagh’s voice came to a hoarse stop and Flower gave one last sway, once again reaching his arm up to the sky. His fingers looked like they could perhaps brush the very stars. 

Silence hung in the air for only a moment. Then Eragon burst out with applause, causing both Murtagh and Flower to jump. 

“That was beautiful,” Eragon said. “Thank you. Both of you.”

He impressed his gratitude onto the elf, trying not to use any words, merely emotion. It seemed like he understood, because he sent Eragon feelings of tired contentment right back. 

“See?” Eragon grinned at Murtagh. “Aren’t you glad you sang?”

Murtagh’s eyes were too busy following Flower to even glance at Eragon.

“Yes, I rather believe I am.”

*

Something brushed the edge of Eragon’s consciousness, and he resolutely blocked it out. He scrunched his eyes further shut and pressed himself closer to Murtagh’s chest. He had  _ just  _ gotten relaxed, blast it. Murtagh mumbled an unintelligible batch of syllables into Eragon’s hair, unconsciously tightening his embrace. Eragon loved lying with Murtagh while he slept; it was peaceful, and usually made finding his waking dreams far easier. So he snuggled closer to his lover’s warmth and ignored the itching in his mind.

He managed this for a few short minutes, before a voice blasted through his defenses.

_ Eragon! You fool! _ Saphira shouted in his head.  _ Something is wrong with the elf! _

Eragon’s eyes flew open at this, and he pushed himself up on his elbows. This caused Murtagh to start out of his sleep with a snort.

“Huh? What is it?”

“Saphira says it’s Flower. Sorry for waking you.”

Murtagh merely gave a groggy groan in response and lazily lifted his head to press his lips to Eragon’s neck. Eragon smiled. Murtagh was always more affectionate when he was tired. Eragon reluctantly detangled himself from Murtagh’s grasp, shivering at the sudden cold. He looked over to where Flower slept on a patch of cleared ground.

It didn’t seem like anything was wrong with the elf. Eragon frowned, wondering what Saphira had seen. Murtagh stirred further, half-sitting up to match Eragon’s stance and stare at Flower. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice husky with sleep.

“I’m not certain,” Eragon murmured. “I could check, but is that invasive?”

“You have no other way of talking with him, Eragon,” Murtagh said. 

The man shifted over to press his face again into Eragon’s neck. Eragon sighed at the rough texture of his chin, eyes fluttering shut.

“Stop distracting me.”

“Hurry up and make sure he’s alright,” Eragon felt Murtagh’s lips move against his skin. “Then come back to sleep.”

So Eragon reached out with his mind, gently touching Flower’s consciousness. As soon as he did, he recoiled with a harsh gasp.

“What?” Murtagh pulled away, looking much more alert. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Eragon managed to choke out. “Flower is.”

As if on cue, the elf moaned aloud in seeming anguish. Eragon scrambled to sit up fully.

“We have to wake him,” Eragon said desperately.

He got to his feet as quickly as possible so he could go and crouch by Flower’s side. Murtagh followed him. Eragon reached out his mind again, this time a lot more wary of the horrors that he was about to witness.

_ Blood everywhere _

_ Red _

_ Pain! So much pain _

_ Lost I’m lost _

_ Alone _

_ Dying dying alone they’re killing me _

Wake up, Flower!

_ Blood _

_ Sharp _

_ Tearing into me _

Wake up!

Beside Eragon, Murtagh reached a hand out to grab Flower’s boney shoulder. As soon as he made contact, Flower’s golden eyes shot open. He took a ragged inhale. Then promptly opened his mouth and screamed at the top of his lungs. He lashed out, grabbing Murtagh’s arm with a fierce grip. 

“Eragon!” Murtagh shouted over the screaming. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know!” Eragon yelled back, frantic and panicking. 

Flower continued to thrash and scream as they tried to hold him down. Eragon projected his thoughts to the elf with vigor. 

_ It’s Eragon! _ He thrust every feeling of comfort and safety he could muster at Flower.  _ You’re safe, it’s alright, you’re going to be alright! _

In a desperate effort, Eragon sent him a peaceful memory of Ellesmera. He thought of the trees, the green, the feeling of timelessness and beauty. Flower froze suddenly, gasping. His large eyes focused on Eragon for what seemed like the first time since he awoke. Eragon felt his mind gradually recognize his surroundings. 

“There you are,” Eragon said, himself a little out of breath. “You’re safe.”

“Gods,” Murtagh said. “What was that?”

Flower’s gaze darted to Murtagh, just realizing he was there. His chest rose and fell at an extremely rapid pace. Then, without warning, the elf’s face scrunched up and he began to cry.

“Oh, oh no,” Eragon’s heart clenched. 

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Eragon lurched forward and gathered Flower into his arms. This only caused the elf to sob harder, and he clutched at Eragon’s shirt with tight fists. Eragon met Murtagh’s eyes over his shoulder.

“He had a nightmare,” Eragon said, rubbing Flower’s back. “That’s what it appeared to be, anyway. It was... it was horrible.”

In a movement that he didn’t seem to dwell on, Murtagh reached around to his lower back. Eragon knew he was feeling his scar. 

“Is he going to be alright?” Murtagh asked quietly.

Eragon reached out to brush against the mind of the crying elf. He recognized Eragon’s consciousness this time, and sent over a feeling of longing. For what, Eragon was not sure. But he was not nearly as panicked as before. There were no more visions of blood and gore and being hurt. 

“I believe so, yes,” Eragon said. “But he’s really shaken up.”

“What can I do?”

Eragon swallowed, holding Flower close. “Come here.”

Murtagh crawled towards them without hesitation. He wrapped his strong arms around both of them and Eragon immediately felt safer. Flower shifted so he could press his face into the junction between their shoulders. Eragon reached a hand up to run through his soft hair, remembering how tangled it was when they’d found him. 

They stayed together like that for a long time, grounded in each other until Flower’s sobs gradually faded into soft hiccups. When they finally pulled away, it wasn’t very far. Just enough so that Flower could put his hands in his lap and look down, sniffling as he didn’t meet their eyes.

“Flower,” Eragon started, letting his concern filter in his thoughts to the elf. “Are you alright?”

The elf gave a single shiver. Murtagh stood quickly and grabbed his sleeping blanket from the ground. He draped it around Flower’s shoulders. He tugged at it and looked up at Murtagh with gratefulness in his eyes. 

“Ask him what it was about,” Murtagh said.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Eragon tried not to sound too frustrated. “He doesn’t understand  _ words  _ Murtagh.”

“Well you’ve been talking to him somehow. We need to understand what happened. If he’s still under some kind of spell he could be in danger.”

“He’s clearly traumatized. I can’t simply pull this out of him -- you didn’t see what he was thinking.”

Murtagh opened his mouth hotly, but was interrupted by a soft cough. They both looked over to where Flower had a pained expression on his face. He reached up and tugged at the golden collar with a wince. He reached out to Eragon, his thoughts tinged with pain and longing and fear. Eragon swallowed. 

“We can’t get it off,” he told the elf. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what spell he used, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s already hurting him,” Murtagh whispered.

Eragon bit his lip, and went to brush his hand against Flower’s cheek. Flower flinched at first, then eased into the touch. Eragon sent him an image from his own mind: the vision of Flower tugging on his collar. Then he sent the memory of when he’d first realized the collar held the spell. He tried to ask the question, ask how to help, but he knew the elf would only partially comprehend.

Flower bit his lip, looking like he was contemplating something. When he reached up to touch his fingers to the back of Eragon’s hand, Eragon was suddenly plunged into a memory.

_ Tinged with the blurriness of time long passed, Eragon recognized the planes sloping down to the Ramr River. Except something was different. The grass seemed shorter than he remembered, wildflowers and trees not as abundant. No wagon trails lined the riverbank. It came to him slowly: this was a memory from long, long ago. Most likely long before Eragon was even born. _

_ A barking voice shook him from behind. Eragon turned with a swiftness and sharpness that was not his own. He looked down at his hands, which were dark skinned and tiny. Flower was young, Eragon realized. A child. He had only ever seen two elf children in his life, and they had not been outside of Ellesmera. _

_ The voice that had yelled belonged to a human man, greasy and wearing battered armor displaying King Galbatorix’s seal. With Flower’s elf eyes, Eragon could see each droplet of glistening sweat on his brow.  _

_ Eragon suddenly realized that rope bound his wrists as he was tugged to the ground by an unseen force. A great fear seized him that overshadowed all other thought.  _

_ “Filthy elf!” the man sneered as he approached, grabbing Eragon’s chin with a bruising grip. “You’re mine now.” _

_ Eragon tried to push up with all of his strength, but another hand pressed down on his back. He couldn’t use the magic flowing in his veins, he didn’t know how, they had not taught him enough yet-- _

_ The man reached out and tugged Eragon’s head roughly forward by the hair. His hair was long, he realized. It swept the ground like falling snow.  _

_ “This will sell for quite a bit,” the man laughed, and then he clamped something solid and cold around Eragon’s neck. _

_ The effect was instantaneous. Eragon felt the magic draining from his body in a painful wave. He screamed in agony as he wilted to the ground, writhing under his bound wrists. Gods, it felt like someone was  _ burning  _ him.  _

_ He took in huge gulps of air, trying to push himself back to his knees. But he felt weaker than he ever thought possible. Turning to look up at the man who had done this to him, he was met with a rotten grin and bloodshot eyes. The man opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. All Eragon heard was a sound like leaves rustling in a forest.  _ Shh shh shh. _ His lips continued to move in silence, and as Eragon was tugged to his feet, he let out another scream. The collar around his neck was already melting a scar into his skin. _

Flower retracted his mind, and Eragon felt like he was being ripped apart. He let a single sob out of his throat, then clamped a hand over his mouth. 

“Eragon?” Murtagh shouted. “Eragon!”

“I’m alright,” Eragon gasped out. “I’m alright.”

He couldn’t remember ever being shown a memory that vivid except by Saphira. The feeling of the burning collar on his skin was still so prominent that Eragon touched his neck where it would be. He swallowed. The pain, the helplessness...

Flower looked at him gravely. Round and sad. 

“You’ve been like this for so long,” Eragon whispered. “For  _ so  _ long.”

“What did he show you?” Murtagh asked.

Eragon sniffed, swiping at his eyes hurriedly. “When he got captured, I think. I don’t know how it happened exactly. But he’s been enslaved for... for  _ years.” _

“Longer than Nasuada’s been in power?”

Eragon looked at his brother. “He was a child in that memory Murtagh. A  _ child. _ That could have been over a hundred years ago.”

Murtagh’s eyes widened, and they both looked over at Flower. He stared back at them, huddled small in his blanket. 

“Well,” Murtagh cleared his throat. “I suppose sleeping is out of the question for the rest of the night. Shall I start a fire?”

“That would probably be wise,” Eragon said, running a hand through his hair.

But just as Murtagh went to stand, Flower shot a hand out to grab at the hem of his shirt. 

“Whoa,” Murtagh froze to look at Eragon. “Is he alright?”

Eragon went to search Flower’s mind, but the elf beat him to it. He sent a recent memory to Eragon this time, of when he and Eragon had been wrapped in Murtagh’s embrace. It was tinged with warm colors, a sense of comfort. 

“Well?” Murtagh asked.

Eragon coughed, feeling his cheeks heat up. “He, er... he wants all three of us to stay together. To sleep, I think.”

Murtagh visibly swallowed, hesitating before he spoke. “He wants...  _ both  _ of us?”

Eragon reached out again to Flower, but still the elf repeated the same memory of the three of them together. Eragon simply nodded in Murtagh’s direction.

It was dark, but Eragon could have sworn he saw his brother blush. 

“Alright then. I’ll... get a place together.”

So Murtagh spread a blanket out on the ground, muttering a quick spell to clear the snow and dry the dead grass. Eragon helped Flower stand, conscious of every brush of their skin. 

Once the three of them were laying on the blanket, Flower in the middle and an awkward space in between them, Saphira’s voice rang in Eragon’s head.

_ Man up you fool, _ she said.  _ Hold him. _

Eragon started, then looked up to glare across the field at his dragon. He hoped she saw him. His attention was brought back to the moment at hand when Flower scooted closer to him, turning on his side so that he could rest his forehead against Eragon’s chest. Eragon exhaled slowly at the feeling. He wrapped his arms tentatively around the elf, and was rewarded with Flower’s thoughts of peace and comfort. Eragon glanced at Murtagh, who was looking at him with wide, lost eyes. He resisted the urge to snicker. 

“Come here you,” he whispered, reaching out his hand.

Murtagh shifted closer until he was pressed against Flower’s back. He and Eragon linked their fingers and rested them across the elf’s waist. The position was new, and intimate. Eragon hadn’t slept this close to anyone besides Murtagh and Saphira, but strangely it did not feel wrong. It felt rather like he had found something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. 

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Murtagh asked Eragon for the second time that night, voice hushed.

“He’ll be alright,” Eragon said firmly, knowing he was trying to convince himself as well as his brother. “He has us.”

They faced each other until Murtagh’s eyes drooped closed. Eragon watched him, his heart aching with fondness. He tightened his grip on the elf and his lover, and decided it was time to enter his waking dreams. Eragon hadn’t slept so soundly since he was human.


	4. Chapter 4

The following day they flew over the Lake Isenstar, and crossed into the great forest of Du Weldenvarden. Amongst the massive trees winter seemed to retreat. Snow no longer covered the ground, and the perpetual scent of springtime lingered in the air. Eragon and Flower seemed more at ease with each league they flew further into the woods, but Murtagh did not share their comfort. His gaze darted uneasily at every turn, the borders around his mind stronger than ever. It was no secret that he disliked the elves and their cunning ways, and it was even less of a secret that they despised him. With their iron memories and almost timeless existence, a mere seven years was not enough to erase Murtagh’s black deeds in their ancient minds. The only place where he felt less welcome was with the dwarves, where they called him Kingkiller without an ounce of praise with which Eragon carried the name.

_ We should land to eat, _ Murtagh reluctantly peeled back the outermost layers of his mental defenses so he could project his thoughts to Eragon.  _ It’s been hours and we are almost to Osilon. _

Like usual, Eragon couldn’t quite hide his joy at being touched by Murtagh’s mind. He smiled to himself. That made it slightly worth it.

_ Alright, _ Eragon said.  _ Saphira will find a clearing. _

Of course, finding a clearing large enough to house two castle-sized dragons proved more difficult than simply pointing one out. It took half an hour before the dragons could circle and land. Once they did, Muragh averted his eyes as Thorn and Saphira nuzzled each other. She blew a cloud of smoke across his spiked head in a gesture of affection, and Murtagh felt Thorn’s love for the other dragon. 

“How is he?” Murtagh called to Eragon, who was helping Flower off Saphira’s back.

“Tired, but well,” Eragon answered. “He got very excited about the trees.”

Murtagh looked at the elf, who was craning his neck back and up at the ancient mammoths that surrounded them. An expression of delight graced his strange features. Murtagh sighed. At least someone could enjoy the forest. 

“Should I start a fire?” Murtagh asked, slinging his pack onto the soft ground.

Eragon grinned knowingly. “Why? It isn’t cold anymore.”

“You know why. I want to cook food.”

Murtagh knew what the younger man was going to say a second before he did.

“Not tonight dearest,” Eragon crowed. “We’re back in my territory, we are no longer eating dead animals.”

Murtagh glared. “I  _ strongly  _ dislike you.”

“Ah, and yet mere days before the lark was singing a different tune.”

Murtagh fought to keep the blush off his cheeks and the twitch out of his eye. 

So Eragon went to gather plants together as Murtagh sat with Flower in a patch of wild daisies. He returned with armfuls of strange fruits, much to Murtagh’s chagrin. They ate and the dragons flew further out to hunt. The sun was casting large swathes of late day orange across the clearing, the trees’ shadows long, by the time they were done. The dragons still had not returned, which was fine by Murtagh. He felt no need to hurry on towards the elven capital. 

Flower sat beside him, picking at the grass. Murtagh glanced over and tried to be discreet. Sleeping with the elf in between him and Eragon should have caused all sorts of alarm bells in his head. Should have made him feel wildy uncomfortable and far too vulnerable. But strangely, it did not. Flower had fit quite perfectly nuzzled against him, in a way Eragon had always been a bit too large for. He hadn’t even thought of the dangers of falling asleep with a stranger. He’d only been concerned for the elf’s safety, his comfort.

And he didn’t even want to admit how seeing the elf snuggle into Eragon’s chest caused his heart rate to speed up. He hadn’t even been  _ jealous. _ It had just been... adorable.

Murtagh shook his head to himself, blowing a  _ whpff  _ of air out his nostrils. He needed to get his head back where it belonged. In a matter of days they would return the elf to his home and he and Eragon would travel back to Nasuada. Nasuada, the only other person in Alagaesia who seemed to be able to tolerate his presence. And yet he would never be welcome in her palace. He would be forced to leave again to wander the land, and the great fear gripped him (as it usually did) that perhaps this time Eragon would not come with him.

A nudge at his ankle brought him out of his brooding. Flower’s large eyes blinked back at him.

“What does he want?” Murtagh directed his question at Eragon, but didn’t take his gaze off the elf.

“For you to stop wallowing in self pity,” Eragon replied.

“That’s what  _ you  _ want.”

“I’m paraphrasing.”

Flower simply nudged at him again, and Murtagh looked down at his hands. There was a pile of wild daisies cupped in them. Flower stretched his hands out, and it soon became clear that the daisies were a part of a chain that he’d been twisting for the last several minutes. Not just a chain, Murtagh realized. A circlet.

Flower held it up for Murtagh to see.

“That’s lovely,” he said, and meant it. “I could never get my fingers to twist something that small.”

Flower continued to hold it up, however, and raised his snowy white eyebrows. Murtagh felt the blood drain from his face. 

“Flower, um, I’m sorry but I don’t really... I can’t...”

The elf cocked his head, eyes confused as he held up the ring of woven daisies. Murtagh caught Eragon’s glare over the elf’s shoulder.

“What?” he hissed. “I’m not wearing that!”

If looks could kill, Murtagh would be flattened. 

“Wear it!”

Murtagh bit his lip. He was vaguely aware of Thorn peeking into their conversation with amusement. He looked back to Flower, who was still holding up the daisies. His gold eyes had grown a little watery, still hopeful but clearly realizing there was something wrong. Murtagh sighed. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward.

Soft hands pressed against his hair ever so slightly, lingering for a moment. Murtagh shuddered. When he leaned back, Flower looked so happy that it could have been worth it. 

“Don’t say anything,” he growled at Eragon, resisting the urge to rip the crown off his head.

But to his surprise, Eragon didn’t snicker. In fact, when he looked over at the man his eyes were wide and staring. 

“What?” Murtagh snapped.

“You look beautiful,” Eragon replied without missing a beat.

It was not the response Murtagh had been expecting. He simply spluttered, turning back at the elf. Flower was looking at him strangely too, now, at smile still on his face.

“I’m serious,” Eragon continued. “I could make a fairth of you right now.”

Murtagh swallowed, unsure of how to respond. Eragon was being serious. And Murtagh had never been beautiful.

“You don’t believe me,” Eragon said.

“I believe you’re perfectly delusional,” Murtagh tried for a joking tone that came out a little too serious.

Eragon stood and walked across the clearing to riffle through the underbrush. He came back with a large rock. He sat back on the ground next to Murtagh and Flower, completing their small circle. With a word in the ancient language, he flattened the stone into a smooth pallet.

“Eragon--” Murtagh choked out a warning.

Eragon  _ shhed  _ him. Murtagh gulped again and merely watched. Flower leaned in closer. Murtagh wanted to shield his eyes, unwilling to see another’s image of him. Why did Eragon always insist on pushing him?

Eragon closed his eyes, relaxing his shoulders. When he whispered the words a few moments later, they crackled with power. Next to him, Flower gasped as an image blossomed upon the stone.

“There,” Eragon said, handing him the stone. “Do you believe me now?”

Murtagh’s own gray eyes stared out at him from the face of the rock. Except, they were never like how he saw them when looking upon his reflection. Eragon had painted his face with agony written into every line. Fairth Murtagh seemed to almost glow with a veil of tragedy and a weight that he couldn’t bear. And yet, had his jaw always looked like that? Had his hair always been so silken, his skin so smooth, his eyes so deep? The daisies around his head looked like diamonds in the image, glittering teardrops. He was sad. He was pained. He was whole. He was... 

“Beautiful,” Eragon repeated softly.

Murtagh knew without a doubt that Eragon really and truly loved him.

Flower made a little noise in the back of his throat, pulling both of them away from the fairth. He made a gesture at Eragon imploringly, pointing to the fairth and then himself. 

Eragon laughed. “You want one too? Alright.”

He went in search of another stone, leaving Murtagh to contemplate his own image. Flower reached over and traced the outline of Murtagh’s painted cheek with the tip of his finger. Then he took the same finger and pressed it to Murtagh’s real one. The elf smiled.

“Alright, sit still,” Eragon instructed as he sat back down with another stone.

The elf froze, not even pausing to blink. Eragon chuckled, and began studying Flower’s face. After several minutes had passed, he spoke the magic and color bloomed on the rock. Flower leaned forward eagerly, and Murtagh abandoned his fairth in favor of watching the new one form.

When it did, Murtagh could only stare. The picture was gorgeous. It was a stunning reflection of the elf, and somehow it seemed to vibrate with life. Even though he hadn’t been smiling while Eragon studied him, the image of Flower was beaming. His gold eyes had never seemed so bright.

Murtagh looked up at Eragon, an eyebrow raised. Eragon seemed just as surprised at the result as his brother. A furious blush worked its way onto his face under Murtagh’s amusement.

“That’s quite an  _ emotional  _ portrait,” Murtagh grinned.

“Oh hush,” Eragon stammered.

Flower took the fairth with reverent hands. He stared at it with his lips slightly parted, gaze raking across every detail. 

“Do you, er,” Eragon cleared his throat. “Do you like it?”

Flower simply lurched forward to capture Eragon in a fierce hug. Murtagh laughed at Eragon’s look of embarrassment, even as he hugged the elf back.

*

They sparred that night, Murtagh and Eragon, still waiting on the dragons to return from their hunt. The crackling fire that Murtagh had started glittered on the blades of their swords. Flower watched with rapt attention. 

Murtagh knew he was a better swordsman than Eragon, knew it like he knew Thorn was a dragon. And yet sparring with him never failed to send a fantastic thrill up his spine. Some nights, all he could remember was That fight, the one where Galbatorix had almost made them kill each other. On those nights he couldn’t bear to pick up Zar’roc against Eragon. But on most nights, he wanted to  _ fight. _ He wanted to feel so tired that he fell straight to sleep without nightmares. He wanted to see Eragon, hair swinging with sweat and eyes burning with the urge to attack. 

Eragon was the only one who could match him. And it was the most exhilarating feeling in the world.

They fought without holding anything back. The sound of blade on blade echoed off the trees and filled the clearing. Murtagh was only vaguely aware of the elf watching them as he and Eragon danced around each other. The extra eyes didn’t feel as sinister as he was used to. 

“You’re swinging unusually high tonight,” Murtagh said as he met Brisingr above his head, enjoying the way Eragon’s eyes narrowed.

In a slice quicker than Murtagh could blink, Eragon drove Brisinger down and towards his side. Murtagh barely had time to block. 

“It’s your flower crown,” Eragon said sweetly behind his blade. “It’s distracting.”

Murtagh felt his face heat up, careful not to stutter at the comment. He couldn’t rip the crown off his head, he was too busy blocking Eragon’s relentless attacks. For a second, he thought Flower was laughing at him from the sidelines, the wheezing noise grating on his nerves.

“You’re the one that made it for me,” Murtagh called over his shoulder with a bite.

But then Flower let out an aching cry. Murtagh turned without thinking about the fight he was currently engaged in, eyes searching for the elf. Eragon yelped behind him, Brisinger swinging precariously by Murtagh’s ear as he swerved the sword from hitting his brother.

“What are you  _ doing? _ Why didn’t you block me?”

“Flower-- I thought I heard--”

As if on cue, the elf cried out again. Murtagh’s eyes widened. Flower had folded over onto himself, his face almost pressed to the dirt. He had his hands around his neck in pain.

“Flower!” Eragon shouted, abandoning Brisingr to the dirt.

Murtagh followed suit and ran to the elf’s side. He felt his heart in his throat, pumping with adrenaline. That was Flower, Flower writhing in  _ pain... _

“It’s his collar,” Eragon said, voice pinched. “Gods, it hurts Murtagh I don’t--”

Flower screamed then, high and anguished. He threw his head back, clawing at his throat hard enough so that red streaks of blood started to appear. Murtagh lunged forward to grab the elf’s wrists and pull them away. He held them to his own chest, trying not to let them jerk back and forth as Flower flailed. 

“We need to  _ do  _ something,” Murtagh begged Eragon.

Eragon had studied with the elves while Murtagh had not. Surely there had to be something, some magical solution that they had not yet thought of. 

“It’s binding to him,” Eragon gasped.

His eyes were closed, his palm against Flower’s flushed cheek. “We have to stop it. I don’t know if we can get it all the way off, but we have to stop this magic. Feel it, Murtagh.”

Murtagh swallowed and allowed his mind to expand, still keeping himself guarded. The first brush against the elf’s consciousness sent him spinning back to the safety of his own mind. What was that? How did another being  _ think  _ like that? It felt like an animal’s mind, but so much deeper, so much more intelligent. Murtagh touched Flower’s mind again, this time a little more prepared, and swallowed at the pain he found. The magic enclosed in the piece around Flower’s neck was ancient. It was powerful, and its true nature sinister. And it was growing, somehow, eating its way into Flower’s mind like a virus. 

“Alright, I see it,” Murtagh murmured. “I know what I’m after. Do you have the words?”

Eragon brushed at his mind, asking permission. Murtagh let him in just enough to share the words in the ancient language. They wove their energy together, as Murtagh joined his voice with his brother’s. They chanted for nearly an hour, until Murtagh’s voice was hoarse and his energy drained. They fought the advancing magic back until they had it once again contained within the collar.

When it was done, Murtagh pulled away back to his own thoughts. He gasped heavily. 

“How long will this last?” Murtagh tried to catch his breath.

They both looked down at Flower, who was unconscious now. Eragon reached out to brush a finger across the elf’s ashen face. Murtagh bit his lip at the tenderness of the picture. He hadn’t seen Eragon touch anyone like that. Anyone besides him.

“I don’t know,” he answered, not looking away from Flower. “The magic is strong. Old. It does not want to be contained.”

The golden collar seemed to glare wickedly, drinking up the firelight.

“It’s killing him because he’s free now,” Murtagh remembered the evil nature of the magic. “It knows.”

Eragon met his eyes with a grave stare. “We need to get to Ellesmera.”

Murtagh could only look down at the fitfully sleeping creature, and wonder how he had gotten so entangled with an elf who couldn’t even speak.


	5. Chapter 5

Eragon slipped out of his waking dreams at the sound of a bird singing overhead. He blinked once, twice, and felt no haze of sleep around him. He was aware of many things at once -- one, that Flower had once again secured himself tightly in Eragon’s grasp. Second, that both dragons had returned sometime in the night. And third, Murtagh already sat awake and was staring at both Eragon and Flower.

Eragon slowly detangled himself from the elf, missing the contact once it was gone. Flower did not stir. Eragon looked down at him, lips slightly parted and brow unfurrowed. He thought of all the birds Flower had excitedly pointed out to Eragon while they flew on Saphira’s back, he thought of the delicate and beautiful way his mind expressed emotion, and he thought of what Flower looked like the night before, writhing in pain on the ground. Eragon swallowed. He looked up at Murtagh, then, who had a finger to his temple. He seemed like he was thinking much the same thoughts.

Eragon stood gently and approached his brother. Murtagh merely glanced at him before going back to his worried watch over the elf.

“How long have you been awake?” Eragon asked.

“Long enough,” came the gruff reply.

Eragon sighed and sat down next to the man. He brushed a strand of dark hair over Murtagh’s shoulder and took pleasure in the way his eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment. They sat in the morning chill, silence between them. They contemplated Flower, who looked small as ever curled up on the ground.

Eragon wished he could reach out to Murtagh’s mind. 

“You don’t have to come with us to Ellesmera,” he said suddenly, trying not to reveal how upset the words made him.

Murtagh slowly turned his gaze away from the elf. “What?”

“I know how difficult it will be for you,” Eragon whispered. “You and Thorn could take the treaty back to Nasuada and explain our situation. You can leave.”

Murtagh’s expression was unreadable. His jaw tensed ever so slightly, but otherwise he showed no movement. His eyes met Eragon’s and they said nothing and everything.

“Do...” he started, stopped himself, then started again. “Do you want me to go?”

_ “No,”  _ Eragon immediately said. “Gods no, Murtagh.”

“Do you want to be alone with the elf?” he asked it devoid of jealousy, devoid of anything really, and Eragon blanched.

“No! I don’t--”

“I will go,” Murtagh said, and Eragon finally could pinpoint an emotion. Anger. “I will go if that is what you wish.”

“Open up to me,” Eragon found himself on the verge of a beg. “Please, look at my thoughts. You need to know them Murtagh.”

Murtagh searched Eragon’s face, as if he could somehow find Eragon’s innermost consciousness amongst his freckles. 

“Please,” Eragon whispered.

One moment, two. Then something in Murtagh’s gaze broke. And Eragon felt a tentative probing at the edge of his mind. He immediately dropped all his wards and laid himself out for Murtagh to see, his love at the very forefront. As Murtagh searched through his mind, Eragon didn’t try to hide how happy it made him to feel his brother’s consciousness. Let him see, Eragon thought. Let him see how much I long to  _ know  _ him.

Murtagh’s mind was hesitant, scared, and still quite a bit guarded. But it was the first time Eragon had felt so much of him. When he retreated after several long minutes, Eragon was the first to sigh at the loss. 

“Did you find the truth?” Eragon whisper asked.

“You... do not want me to leave.”

“I do not.”

Here, Murtagh paused to look at the forest floor. Eragon waited patiently, knowing whatever war was clouding Murtagh’s mind would soon make itself known.

“You care about the elf,” Murtagh finally coughed out, still not looking up. “You care about him... a lot.”

Eragon swallowed. “Yes.”

Murtagh snapped his head up with fire burning in his gaze. “And yet you still love me, you love me so much I can scarcely believe it.”

“Yes,” Eragon gave a small smile.

“But how?” Murtagh’s voice was pained with struggle.

Eragon exhaled, and felt calm. “A wise elf once told me that I am full of love. Perhaps there’s room for even more.”

“But I’m not,” Murtagh murmured.

Eragon saw tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“What?”

“I am not full of love,” Murtagh said. “So... so how...”

“How what?”

Murtagh made a strangled noise of frustration, and suddenly a wall of  _ feeling  _ slammed into Eragon’s mind. He gasped at the force of it. For there were Murtagh’s emotions, real and connected to him for the very first time, no barriers in the way. Eragon felt Murtagh’s fear, his desolation, his isolation, his regret, and gods he felt the maddening guilt. But there, amongst the black sea of Murtagh’s thoughts were two shining lights: Thorn and Eragon. Eragon felt his eyes heat up. Murtagh  _ cared. _

And there... soft and unsure and so very small... was Flower. 

Murtagh pulled everything back so quickly Eragon got whiplash. He blinked as he was alone with his own mind once again.

“You care about him too,” Eragon said in awe. 

“Blast it yes!” Murtagh wailed, leaning forward to press his face into his hands. “And I don’t understand!”

Eragon inched forward so that he could press his knees against Murtagh’s. He reached forward to place a hand on the other’s shoulder. Murtagh looked up with wet eyes. Eragon looked back, undaunted. He knew how much Murtagh hated to show his weakness, and he would not back away from it or show any pity now.

So, in the ancient language, he spoke.

“Murtagh Morzansson, you are allowed to love.”

Murtagh’s breath hitched.

Without wasting another second, Eragon pulled his brother into a tight embrace. Murtagh shook with silent cries, his face tucked against Eragon’s shoulder. Eragon simply ran his fingers through Murtagh’s hair, refusing to let go.

They stayed locked like that for a long while. Eventually, Murtagh detangled himself with a wet sniff. Saphira nudged at Eragon’s mind, obviously wondering if everything was alright. It wasn’t often Murtagh cried. He could only imagine the barrage of worry Thorn was projecting. 

“I’m sorry,” Murtagh mumbled, wiping his eyes.

“Hush,” Eragon told him. “You have no reason to be.”

“I still am,” Murtagh said, and it felt like he was apologizing for more than just the tears.

Eragon gulped. “So will you come with us? To Ellesmera?”

Murtagh looked up, eyes rimmed with red, and gave a faint smile. 

“Where you go, I go.”

Eragon thanked him in the ancient language, and pressed his lips to Murtagh’s cheek.

Across the clearing, Flower began to stir. He gave a soft moan, and Eragon immediately turned to him. 

His eyes blinked open slowly, duller than usual. They landed on Eragon, and he felt the elf’s mind touch his. Flower sent him the color blue along with a feeling of warmth. Eragon had come to recognize that as Flower’s way of identifying him.

“I’m here,” Eragon told him, sending him comfort. “How are you feeling?”

Flower opened his mind, allowing Eragon to feel his lethargy and small tinges of fear. But Eragon felt no pain.

“Is he alright?” Murtagh asked. 

Eragon nodded. “Our magic worked. It’s completely contained again.”

“We need to get going before that changes.”

Eragon voiced his agreement and made as if to stand. He was stopped by a hand hooking onto his tunic. He looked down to meet the elf’s already staring gold eyes. 

“What is it?” Eragon asked. 

Flower brushed against his mind and Eragon let him in. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the elf’s all encompassing  _ gratitude. _ Flower played a memory of his pain from the night before, and the relief that had followed as Eragon and Murtagh trapped the evil magic. Eragon gulped as Flower touched the pads of his fingers to Eragon’s cheek. His face was open and beautiful.

“You’re welcome,” Eragon whispered.

Seized by an unexplainable urge, Eragon leaned forward. And without really thinking about it at all, he pressed his lips to Flower’s. 

Connected as he was to the elf’s mind, he felt his shock immediately. But there was something else there too. An undercurrent of desire that had Eragon’s head spinning. Gods, it was so soft and sweet and it felt so utterly perfect that Erafon asked himself why he hadn’t done this the moment he’d laid eyes on Flower. 

When he eventually pulled away, Flower’s eyes were closed. He chased Eragon’s lips for the briefest moment. 

Next to them, Murtagh cleared his throat. 

Eragon’s eyes widened. He’d completely forgotten that another person sat just hands away. He whipped his gaze to his brother, expecting to be met with some kind of fury. However, when Eragon met Murtagh’s gaze he was surprised to see a faint blush working its way across his cheeks. Murtagh averted his eyes. Eragon felt himself starting to grin. 

It was wiped off his face in a second when Flower gasped out loud. The elf’s eyes were blown wide, brows furrowed as he pressed both his hands to his mouth. 

“What? What is it?” Eragon asked frantically. “Did I overstep? I am so sorry.”

Tears began gathering gold, threatening to spill down Flower’s cheeks. 

“You  _ fool,”  _ Murtagh hissed, hitting Eragon on the shoulder. “What did you do?”

“I-I don’t know, I just...” Eragon stammered. 

He reached out with his mind, silently asking Flower what was wrong. The elf flashed him a vicious series of images. 

Murtagh and Eragon embracing after stopping for a meal, Murtagh and Eragon curled up together with their hands interlocked, Murtagh brushing his finger across Eragon’s freckles, Eragon kissing Murtagh’s cheek. Each and every memory was tinged with a sting of jealousy and longing. 

“Oh,” Eragon murmured as Flower pulled his mind away. _ “Oh.” _

“What?” Murtagh asked. 

Flower swiped a hand under his eyes. He reached forward and tapped a finger against Murtagh’s chest, then did the same to Eragon. Then he held up two fingers pressed together. With his opposite hand, he tapped his own chest, then held up one solitary finger away from the other two. His gaze swam in sadness as he implored Murtagh to understand. 

Eragon opened his mouth to argue with the elf, but surprisingly Murtagh beat him to it. 

“No,” Murtagh shook his head. 

He pushed Flower’s hands back down to his lap. Murtagh then took his own finger to touch it against the elf’s chest, then Eragon’s, then his own. Without taking his gaze away from Flower, he held up three fingers all pressed together. 

“Together,” Murtagh murmured.

It took a couple moments for Flower to understand. When he did, he lunged forward to fling his arms around Murtagh. Murtagh met Eragon’s gaze over the elf’s shoulder, eyes wide. 

Eragon could only laugh, heart swelling with pride as Murtagh hugged Flower back.


	6. Chapter 6

A crack sounded through the forest, bouncing off the giant tree trunks and around the inside of Murtagh’s skull. He winced at the noise, and at the accompanying roar inside his mind.

_ Thorn! _ He snapped at his dragon.  _ This is the fourth time your tail has hit a tree! _

_ I’m a bit bigger than you, Murtagh,  _ Thorn huffed.

_ You’re also no longer being grown by the king’s magic. Have a little control of your body; Saphira is managing just fine. _

At the mention of Saphira’s name, their mind connection was flooded with Thorn’s lovestruck thoughts of the other dragon. Murtagh rolled his eyes, and let the conversation be. The elves already hated them. What more would a few damaged trees do?

“We’re almost there!” Eragon’s voice floated back to Murtagh from his position farther ahead.

“We better be,” Murtagh grumbled to himself.

They’d landed their dragons a short time ago to trek through the forest on foot. With every step Murtagh grew warrier. His decision to stay had seemed noble and full of love when he’d made it the day prior. Now, it was starting to seem a bit foolish. Upon seeing him, the elves would want nothing to do with his explanations. He’d be thrown out or thrown into an elvish prison, and it didn’t matter that he was traveling with one of their own. 

Murtagh tried to see through the trees to where Eragon and Flower walked ahead. One of their own. Did Flower even count as one of their own? Murtagh had never seen an elf like him before; small with that burnished skin and shock of white hair. What if he didn’t even belong in Ellesméra? What if taking him back here was a wild fantasy that would only get Murtagh and his beloved dragon caught? Why did they ever stop thinking about themselves?

_ You’re hurting yourself, _ Thorn’s deep tambor echoed in Murtagh’s mind.

Murtagh blinked, realizing that he’d been gnawing on his lip hard enough to draw blood.

_ I should never have opened myself up to that elf, _ he said.

What went unsaid, was the regret of having opened himself up to Eragon too.

_ Flower cares for you  _ and  _ Eragon, Murtagh, _ Thorn told him.

Unbidden, tears sprung up in the corners of his eyes. Murtagh swiped at them angrily with the back of his hand. Since when did he cry? Especially over an elf.

_ He kissed Eragon,  _ Murtagh thought. 

_ And he’d kiss you too, if you let him,  _ Thorn grumbled.  _ Stop being such a fool. _

With that, the dragon retreated from his mind, leaving only the ever present hum of their bond. Murtagh dug his fingernails into his palm and tried not to dwell on the words. And he most certainly did not dwell on the imagined sensation of Flower’s lips against his own.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to concentrate for long. Murtagh and Thorn nearly crashed into Eragon and Saphira where they’d stopped a few paces ahead of them.

“We’re here,” Eragon said, lifting a finger to point ahead.

“I see nothing,” Murtagh kept his voice flat.

If Eragon was perturbed by his tone, he did not say it. He merely nodded again to the empty forest in front of them.

Suddenly, they were not alone. An elf, at least Murtagh thought it was an elf, stood in their line of vision. He seemed to radiate a power that most creatures did not. Murtagh gulped at the intensity of the elf’s gaze.

“Eragon,” Murtagh began. “I do not think--”

“This is Gilderien the Wise,” Eragon said gently, pressing his palm to Murtagh’s shoulder. “He guards Ellesméra. Saphira and I know him well.”

Murtagh was not as assured by Eragon’s statement as he thought he should have been. Eragon turned his palm towards the elf, showing his gedwey ignasia. Saphira bowed her head. Murtagh swallowed again, copying Eragon’s motion and urging Thorn to do the same. On Saphira’s back, Flower stared at the elf in what looked like utter awe.

Gilderien the Wise turned past the blue dragon and her rider with barely a second glance at Flower. He seemed to have eyes only for Murtagh. His gaze bore a hole through Murtagh’s chest. Gritting his teeth, Murtagh held his ground as he felt a glare starting to form on his face. He knew this was a bad idea -- they wouldn’t even be allowed to cross into Ellesméra. He’d have to turn back to Nasuada, turn back and away from Eragon, away from Flower.

“O Great Gilderien the Wise,” Eragon spoke from beside him, clearly sensing the situation was about to take a downward turn. “This is Murtagh. He is the one who helped me to bring down King Galbatorix eight years ago. He is noble, and true, and although he--”

The elf raised a single hand, causing Eragon’s speech to falter and dwindle into nothing. All the while, the ancient elf did not take his eyes from Murtagh.

_ You have committed atrocities, Morzansson,  _ a voice like the heat of the sun crashed through Murtagh’s mind, speaking in the Ancient Language.  _ You and your dragon both. _

Murtagh winced, feeling magic ruthlessly prod at his mind. He felt the same energy careening itself at Thorn. He was vaguely aware of Eragon and Flower staring at them with worry, and he knew if anything serious were to happen Eragon would step between him and the elf. But that is not what he wanted. Murtagh raised his tired head and glared back at the elf with all the strength he could muster.

_ I am not the first to have done so, _ he replied, iron in his thoughts.

_ Murtagh, _ Thorn warned.  _ Do not make them hate you more than they already do. _

Gilderien seemed to glow under the green haze of the mammoth trees. He was older than time, Murtagh realized. Older than dragons.

_ Do you feel remorse, Wanderer? _

Murtagh felt something clench in his chest.

_ Yes. _

_ Remorse does not erase the past, _ the elf intoned.

_ Nothing erases the past, _ Murtagh replied, and felt the truth of those words at the core of his regret.  _ Nothing but time. _

_ And even then, there are those who will remember, _ Gilderien said.

Murtagh met the elf’s cold eyes, and knew it was hopeless. 

“I will always remember,” Murtagh told him.

The forest rang with his words, and he only realized he’d said them out loud after he heard the muffled sound bounce back to him off the enormous tree trunks.

The elf raised a single eyebrow. Beside him, the grass bent unnaturally forward, as if swaying to an invisible breeze. He spread his arms then, in an undeniable gesture of welcome. Murtagh heard Eragon exhale softly, a sound he wasn’t sure he would’ve noticed if he wasn’t so used to the other man.

Then, Gilderien the Wise disappeared. As he faded from their vision, the last echo of his voice rested itself in Murtagh’s mind.

_ Do not forget what you have done, Argetlam. Never forget. _

Murtagh shuddered, and immediately looked towards his dragon. 

_ What did he say to you? _

In response, Thorn just shook his head. 

“Murtagh!” Eragon stepped forward to tug the other into his arms, and Murtagh could practically feel the worry radiating off his brother. “Are you alright? Did he do anything to you?”

Murtagh chuckled into Eragon’s hair before pulling away. “No, he just... let me go.”

Eragon opened his mouth in obvious confusion, but someone else beat him to the punch. Flower slid down off of Saphira’s back. He came up to slip his hand into Murtagh’s, eyes alight with something hopeful. He looked forward into the large trees.

“I think Flower wants to go into Ellesméra.”

Eragon bit his lip. “You’re sure that... I mean, you’re allowed?”

“You saw the elf, he was clearly welcoming us,” Murtagh said slowly, trying to rationalize with himself as much as Eragon. “We should go. Who knows how long that collar will hold.”

They both turned to look at Flower, then, who blinked back at them.

“Can you ask him if it hurts?” Murtagh nudged Eragon.

Eragon just sighed. “I think it always hurts.”

So the three of them turned on towards Ellesméra. Crossing the border, Murtagh expected to get smited for a moment, and then when that did not occur, he began looking around for the supposed great elven city. The further they walked, the more irritated Murtagh became. Yes, the trees were bigger than any he’d ever laid eyes on, but where was the magic? Where were the unconquerable people that carried their pride and isolation higher than their morality?

“Where is it?” Murtagh eventually hissed to Eragon.

“Where is what?”

“The  _ city, _ fool.”

Eragon gave a low chuckle that made the hairs on the back of Murtagh’s neck stand up. “Look closer.”

With the slightest pressure, Eragon tilted Murtagh’s jaw to the left with a single finger. Murtagh narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t...” he trailed off as the very forest seemed to come to life under his eyes.

The trees weren’t just trees, he realized, they were buildings. The paths that wound between the trees had clearly been carefully worn. Where shadows should be thrown across the underbrush, unexplained light breathed beneath the green. And the more Murtagh looked, the more he saw -- including many glittering pairs of eyes peering from inside the trees.

“They’re staring,” Murtagh whispered.

“And?” Eragon reached up to stroke Saphira’s glittering scales. He looked more relaxed than Murtagh had seen him in a long time. “Let them. I am finally home.”

They only made it a few more steps, their dragons following closely behind, before the first elf emerged. Murtagh took an involuntary step back, mind already searching for Thorn’s. 

“Shadeslayer,” the she-elf’s voice rang with undisguised joy as she spoke in the Ancient Language. “Brightscales, how good it is to see you.”

Eragon responded by making a strange gesture with his hands, expression also radiating content. 

“I am so glad to be home,” he said, answering in her language. “However, I am afraid this is not a visit for pleasure. May we speak to the Queen? We have urgent business to attend to.”

For the first time, the she-elf flicked her catlike gaze to Murtagh and Thorn. 

“I see,” her voice was ice. “The queen will not be pleased to accept... visitors other than yourself, Shadeslayer.”

“My companions have traveled far with me,” Eragon’s voice hardened to match the elf’s. “And they shall continue to travel with me, unless you question the judgement of Gilderien the Wise.”

One beat, two. Murtagh held his breath. The she-elf turned on her heel, expression giving nothing away.

“Follow me.”

As they walked through Ellesméra, more elves came out to watch their passage. Murtagh burned under their stares, and in order to avoid looking at them turned his gaze to Flower. How different he looked than them, sheltered back on Saphira, golden eyes wide as he took in his surroundings. 

“Do you remember this place?” Murtagh whispered.

Flower looked down at him, head cocked. His only response was a small grin before he whipped his head back to the twisting trees. Murtagh swallowed. He hoped the elves could help Flower. If not, then he was walking into the mouth of the lion’s den for no reason.

*

Arya met Eragon without restraint. She lept from her throne with speed only an elf could muster and pulled him immediately into a tight hug. They spoke too low and quickly for Murtagh to distinguish their words, though clear joy emitted from them both. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as he waited. 

Finally, she turned to address Murtagh. As her green eyes met his, he wished desperately that Thorn was small enough to accompany him inside. 

“Wanderer,” her voice was high and clear. “What are you doing in my realm?”

Eragon furrowed his brow, clearly about to defend his brother, but Murtagh shot him a warning glance.

“I am here only because I need to be, Your Majesty,” he murmured.

“I can think of no deed of such importance it takes two of the strongest warriors in all of Alagaesia to complete,” she said. “You know you are not welcome here.”

_ Her words cannot hurt you, _ Murtagh tried to tell himself.  _ You have suffered far worse than this.  _

“Is it a matter of redemption?” Arya continued. “For I assure you, you will find none of that here.”

“It is not a deed of honor, nor redemption, nor anything of such noble pursuits, I am afraid,” Murtagh answered softly, the words tumbling out of him as he flicked his gaze to the ground. “It is a deed of the heart. And as I have spent the better part of my life denying myself of what you call love, I figured it was time to feel it again.”

The courtroom was silent. He felt even Eragon looking at him in shock. Arya quirked a single eyebrow, looking very much as powerful and ancient as Gilderien the Wise in that moment. 

“How very human of you.”

“I’ve seen the worst of humanity. I’ve  _ been  _ the worst of humanity. But love, I think, is the best of it,” Murtagh continued to stare at the floor, almost unable to believe the words coming out of his own mouth.

His speech was met with silence once again. He didn’t dare look up, until he felt something brush against his hand. Eragon.

_ I love you. _ The sentence melted through his mind.

Murtagh’s throat clenched. He could only squeeze Eragon’s hand in response. 

“Well,” Arya Dröttning spoke, and her voice was different.

Murtagh lifted his gaze to meet hers, only to find that it was filled with something that it hadn’t been just moments before. She looked... satisfied. And that was enough for Murtagh.

“What brings you to Ellesméra?”

Murtagh looked to Eragon, hoping that he could answer better than he could. He didn’t think he had any more poetic words in him.

Eragon sobered in an instant, pulling his hand from Murtagh’s. 

“We bring with us someone who desperately needs your help,” Eragon said. “We met him in Daret. He was enslaved by one of the local magicians, we know not for how long. The collar around his neck contains ancient magic that I am wary to confront. I fear if we do not stop it soon, he will die.”

A million things flashed through Arya’s eyes in a second. Murtagh cautiously searched her face.

“And why do you care so much for this slave?”

Eragon looked down to the ground. Murtagh felt the apprehension, felt the shame. He sighed, and knew he could bear this for his brother, his lover, his other half. The only person that had ever made him feel at home.

“We love him, Your Majesty,” Murtagh said. “He is an elf, he cannot speak. And yet he has captured our hearts. Please. You must see him.”

For a breathtaking moment, everyone was still. Than Arya slowly nodded.

“We will bring our best healers. Call him forth, and we shall help you Shur'tugals.”

Murtagh sighed in relief and turned to Eragon. After a brief exchange, Eragon went to fetch Flower from where he stayed with the dragons. When he entered the throne room, the elves around them inhaled with surprise. 

Queen Arya stepped forward, clear astonishment written across her face in a rare display of emotion.

“Where... where did you say you found this elf?”

“Daret, Your Majesty.”

She approached Flower with an almost reverence. Flower cowered back against Eragon, and Murtagh wished nothing more than to go forward and wrap him up in his arms. Love. What a strange word. Did he mean it?

Arya stalked around Flower with her eyes wide. 

“Do you remember us, Oh Reverent One?” she asked, clearly addressing Flower in the Ancient Language. “Do you remember this place?”

Flower just stared at her, golden eyes wide and curious as he clung to Eragon.

“He does not speak,” Eragon said. “The collar around his neck keeps him from doing so.”

Arya nodded gravely. “This is an ancient magic, as you have said. We have seen it before.”

“You have?” Murtagh found himself blurting out against his will.

Arya nodded curtly, then gestured to an elf standing close to her. 

“Selagea,” she whispered. “Come speak your wisdom.”

The elf, tall with braids cradling his head, stood beside his Queen.

“This is a technique used to enslave magic users since the beginning of time,” Selagea said. “Elves used it until we deemed it as torture, and then black magic users, mostly humans, took it under their mantal. It strips the wearer of their language and all comprehension associated with it. It binds the wearer to the caster’s will, creating a magic-less, helpless, utterly obedient slave until the wearer’s death. This magic is trapped in the metal, ensuring that after the castor’s death the evil spell wears on.”

Murtagh wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull Flower into his arms. 

“He is in constant pain. He has nightmares, it is trying to kill him,” Murtagh said. “Can you remove it?”

Arya reached her hand up to brush the pads of her fingers against the golden collar. Flower jerked back into Eragon’s grasp.

“We can,” she said. “However, this magic has been in effect much too long to fully purge. He will most likely not retain full speech, and he will be forever plagued by the echoes of pain.”

“Do it,” Eragon’s voice was strong and deep in a room full of bell-like elves.

Arya stepped forward, bringing a pale palm to Flower’s dark cheek. 

_ “Vindr Draumr, _ ” she murmured. “You will be free.”

Flower shuddered at her touch, but this time did not shy away. Murtagh lurched towards him, unable to stay away any longer. He clasped Eragon’s hand behind the elf’s back. The comfortable familiarity of Eragon’s strong grip grounded him, reminding him that even in the company of such suspicious creatures, he was safe.

“Then do it,” Eragon repeated. “Before it is too late.”

Arya nodded to Selagea and the elf came to grip Flower’s upper arm.

“We shall do it here,” he said. “The power in this room shall aid us.”

Other elves from around the throne room began to gather closer as Selagea slowly laid Flower on the ground. Murtagh let Eragon be the one to mutter sweet nothings and sugary promises to the terrified little elf. He wasn’t good at that sort of thing anyway.

The elves soon began their muttering in the Ancient Language, palms outstretched and Flower helpless under them. Murtagh ground his teeth as Flower began to squirm.

_ He’s in pain, _ he stabbed the words into Eragon’s mind.  _ Make them stop! _

_ They are freeing him, Murtagh,  _ was Eragon's only response.  _ Sometimes it hurts before it gets better. _

Murtagh kept himself from lurching forward as Flower’s eyes shuddered closed and he jerked underneath the elve’s ministrations. He wanted to grab the elf and take him away from here. He acted so different from the others of his kind -- so much more emotive and free. He ate rabbit, and made flower crowns. How could he be at home with these regal beings? Would he leave Murtagh, when he woke up? Would he be cured and more like an elf than ever before?

Murtagh had to turn away from the proceedings as Flower writhed on the ground, clearly in pain. The collar glowed red hot, and Murtagh’s breathing went shallow. All he could see in his mind’s eye were Eragon’s knuckles clenched white around Flower’s upper arm.

“Queen Arya,” Murtagh’s voice was guttural and pained, but he refused to look at Flower. “You called him  _ Vindr Draumr.” _

“Aye,” Arya murmured as she stepped away to meet Murtagh. “For that is what he is.”

“Dream wind,” Murtagh muttered to himself, slipping out of the Ancient Language. “What does it mean?”

Arya gave a drawn out sigh, and looked towards the soaring eaves of her wooden palace. 

“Long ago, the elves celebrated  _ Draumrae,” _ when she spoke, she seemed as if she did not exist in the same place Murtagh was existing. “It was a night when the moon entered each of us and made our magic whole, and we all took part in the same waking dream.”

She looked back towards where Flower was in agony on the floor, collar burning around his neck.

“It was before my time, long before,” she whispered. “There were elves known as the  _ Vindr Draumr,  _ born to speak for the Moon. On the eve of  _ Draumrae, _ while we gathered by the Menoa Tree, they would dance. They would dance and speak magic through their limbs, spinning a reality in which we all would succumb ourselves. It was a night in which we honored the heavens for they know much more than us.”

Arya met Murtagh’s gaze, then, and he was struck by the sorrow he found there. 

“The  _ Vindr Draumr  _ were the most honored among us. They could not perform magic in the way we could, casting spells with our words. They cast spells with their bodies. And only one was born every five thousand years.”

Murtagh choked on nothing, eyes nearly bugging out of his skull. “Five  _ thousand  _ years?”

“Because of the war, and the terrible plague that was Galbatorix, they began to die out. The last one born was kidnapped nearly three hundred years ago. Since then, we have not been able to celebrate  _ Draumrae,  _ as the elves who channeled the moon’s magic have all faded.”

Here, Arya paused to look back at Flower.

“All, apparently, but one.”

At this, Flower gave a drawn out cry of agony. Murtagh immediately lurched forward, dropping to his knees. He pressed his side to Eragon’s and his hand to Flower’s cheek.

“What are you doing to him?” Murtagh yelled at Selagea, whos brow was furrowed with concentration. “You’re hurting him!”

“They are unbinding him,” Eragon grasped Murtagh’s shoulder with a bruising grip. “It is not an easy, nor a pleasant process. This magic has weaved its way into his very soul.”

Murtagh clenched his jaw and glowered at the elves, wishing he could do anything but stand there as they sang. 

His anger simmered quietly, and eventually dimmed over the course of the hours they spent on the palace floor. Soon, Murtagh was leaning gently against Eragon, watching as Flower turned fitfully in his unconscious state. 

“It is almost complete,” Arya finally said. “All that is left is the removal.”

On her cue, the elves surrounding Flower stopped chanting. They opened their tired eyes and moved to lay their hands around Flower’s neck. Murtagh gripped his fist around Eragon’s with apprehension.

A hiss, and then a great clang of metal. 

The collar unhinged itself.

As soon as the seal was broken, Flower’s eyes flew open. As gold as ever, they darted around the throne room as if seeing it for the first time. Selagea carefully tugged the golden collar from Flower’s neck. As soon as it left his skin, it tarnished, aging a hundred years in the span of seconds. 

Flower gasped, inhaling so much air his chest rose at least a full hand. His eyes landed on Murtagh first. Caught in the steady gold beam of the elf’s gaze, Murtagh could only stare. He felt his pulse in his fingertips.

“Hello,” Murtagh said, the Ancient Language finding its way to his lips. 

The elf lurched forward then, and in a completely unexpected display of affection pressed his lips to Murtagh’s. 

It took a second for Murtagh to realize what was happening, and another second to let his eyelids flutter shut.  _ Oh, _ he thought.  _ This is softer than kissing Eragon. _

Then, the elf spoke.

“Lilith,” his voice cracked over itself, unused for millenia. His golden eyes found Murtagh’s, and Murtagh was lost. “I... I am Lilith.”

“I’m Murtagh,” the Red Rider answered dumbly.

Lilith cracked his face into the biggest grin Murtagh had ever seen, and a laugh that sounded like silver bells filled the throne room. Next to him, Eragon’s eyes shone. Maybe, Murtagh thought, things were going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long! got sidetracked w school and all that jazz. enjoy!


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Hope you enjoy :)

Eragon barely noticed how soft the silk of Murtagh’s collar was as he tugged it down over his brother’s tunic.

“You have to wear it out and flat,” he chastised. “When you let it poke up like that you look like an evil sorcerer.”

Murtagh glared, but there was amusement behind it. “Are you insinuating I am  _ not  _ an evil sorcerer?”

Eragon found himself unable to hold back a laugh. He let his hands slide down from Murtagh’s collar to rest on the man’s chest. They lingered there, and Eragon felt his palms begin to warm.

“I’m insinuating that for the ceremony tonight, you should probably leave your evil sorcerer days well in the past,” he grinned.

Murtagh’s gaze hardened, but not as much as it used to when Eragon would mention such things.

“Do you think they will truly let me be there?” he asked, voice soft.

Eragon sighed. “You’ve been welcomed back into Ellesmera for months now, Murtagh. Arya herself gave you permission to attend the ceremony tonight.”

Murtagh’s eyes darted to his feet, and Eragon worried at his bottom lip. He understood Murtagh’s concern. Years of animosity from the elves couldn’t be erased in a few months, no matter how much Eragon and Lilith stood up for him. In fact, Eragon suspected the only reason Arya gave Murtagh, a human and a traitor, permission to attend the  _ Draumrae  _ tonight was due to Lilith’s incessant begging. It was very difficult to resist those round gold eyes. Not to mention it was practically Lilith’s ceremony. No elf could deny the Last  _ Vindr Draumr, _ Reverent One, Speaker for the Moon, if he asked for Murtagh to be able to watch him dance.

Eragon pulled his hands away from Murtagh’s chest, but his wrist was snatched up at the last second. He felt his heartbeat speed up as Murtagh pressed a gentle kiss to the pads of Eragon’s calloused fingers. It still astounded him every time, these small displays of aching affection Murtagh would afford him.

Murtagh cleared his throat and let Eragon’s hand fall back to his side. “Are you ready?”

Eragon smiled up at him. He was very used to the way Murtagh’s mouth did not smile back, and he knew his lover well enough by now to see the smile in his eyes anyway.

“Yes,” he said, making the switch to the Ancient Language with the one lyrical word. “Will you be able to keep yourself from drooling when you see him?”

Murtagh rolled his eyes and made his way to the door of their small home.

“Will  _ you?” _

He answered in the Ancient Language as well, the words sounding much coarser than they did on Eragon’s tongue. Eragon could only laugh again, feeling his steps lighten as they walked together out into the night.

*

The Menoa Tree stood as beautiful and intimidating as Eragon remembered her. He had not seen the tree since he’d bargained for Brisingr’s metal almost a decade ago. Unlike then, the tree did not speak to him. Elves gathered around it in droves. This didn’t come as a surprise to Eragon. It had taken Lilith a mere two weeks to win over every single elf in Ellesmera. It looked as if the entire city had made its way to the tree.

As Eragon and Murtagh passed through the crowds, most murmured conversations turned in their direction. Eragon tried to convince himself it was simply out of curiosity. Even after several months of coming in and out of Ellesmera, towing Murtagh along with him, and courting the Last  _ Vindr Draumr,  _ he was still a widely discussed topic. He supposed he couldn’t expect anything else. To an elf, four months passed more quickly than blinking.

He and Murtagh stopped towards the front of the crowds. Eragon spotted Arya speaking with Selagea at the base of the tree. He wondered anxiously where they were keeping Lilith before the ceremony started.

“Where do you think he is?” Murtagh whispered next to him, low enough for only Eragon to hear.

He squinted at his brother, wondering how he’d slipped past Eragon’s mental barriers without detection. But after a moment, he grinned with the realization that Murtagh hadn’t read his mind at all; his thoughts simply mirrored Eragon’s own.

“I can’t be sure,” Eragon answered. “But most likely somewhere in the tree.”

“It’s so dark,” Murtagh huffed. “How can you see that far?”

Eragon blinked, forgetting that his eyesight was far more precise than Murtagh’s. To him, the night made everything look blue and slightly hazy, but he could still see.

“Don’t worry, the moon will be out soon.”

They both looked up instinctively, where they could see the clouded sky through the gaps in the leaves.

Arya suddenly spoke then, drawing their attention back to the earth. The murmur of conversation ceased, replaced by a silent hum of anticipation. Eragon could practically feel the excitement on his skin.

_ “Alfakyn,” _ Arya addressed the elves, then her gaze slid to where Eragon and Murtagh stood. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards. “And Riders. We gather here on the eve of  _ Draumrae  _ to witness the moon speak for the first time in three centuries.”

A shiver ran up Eragon’s spine, and he wasn’t sure why. The strange energy in the air felt like it was beginning to morph into something else. A glance around him revealed that all the other elves had begun to feel it too. Murtagh was simply standing and looking uncomfortable. Without a word, Eragon reached discreetly over to slip his hand into Murtagh’s.

“The elders among us remember the  _ Vindr Draumr  _ who danced long ago,” Arya continued. “However, their fading ensured the youngest of us have never seen the moon speak. Tonight, we rejoice, for two Riders have returned the last of the  _ Vindr Draumr  _ home to us.”

This statement caused some elves to shift their gazes to where Eragon stood. He felt Murtagh grip his hand tighter. 

The same shiver he’d felt before suddenly raced up Eragon’s spine once more. A wave of soft gasps went up among the elves as they all felt the same thing. Eragon expanded his mind then, almost like something had compelled him to relax his barriers. He felt every living creature near the Menoa Tree. Then his eyes snapped to where a golden light began to glow from behind the enormous trunk. He watched as Arya turned, wearing a relaxed, dreamy smile. When she spoke, her words echoed in Eragon’s mind as if magic itself had spoken them.

“The Last  _ Vindr Draumr,  _ the Speaker for the Moon, the Lily that Gilds Dreams,” she said. “He is finally awake. Let us honor the heavens.”

Eragon found himself speaking before he could question it, the words tumbling from his lips. “Let us honor the heavens.”

Every elf around him breathed out the words as well.

Then, Eragon saw him. He heard Murtagh draw a sharp inhale. All Eragon could do was stare.

Lilith stepped out from behind the tree. His golden eyes shone bright enough to cast a haze of light around him. He wore a fluttering silk shift that dripped delicately off his small frame, and his white hair tumbled all the way down his back. It rippled over his shoulders like a waterfall. Eragon remembered the day he and Murtagh sung for the elf, combing through the brilliant white locks until their magic grew it long again.

Lilith looked breathtakingly beautiful, and, Eragon realized, every bit of the revenant  _ Vindr Draumr  _ he was supposed to be.

“By Valar,” Murtagh cursed under his breath.

Eragon barely heard him. Because just then, Lilith began to dance.

He spun like liquid, raising a singular thin arm up to the heavens. His fingers stretched out, and as if Lilith himself commanded the sky, the clouds slowly parted. The entire clearing was bathed in the glow of the full moon. As soon as the moonlight touched him, Eragon felt his mind slipping away. It felt a little like he was drunk on fine mead. All the while, he couldn’t take his eyes from Lilith.

The elf danced alone, but it didn’t seem to matter. Eragon heard  _ music. _ He couldn’t hold back a gasp of surprise. It didn’t sound like any music one could make with an instrument or a voice. It was something else, something entirely celestial. Lilith’s magic was overwhelming. It was huge and amorphous and otherworldly, and it clung to the edges of Eragon’s mind as Eragon felt himself gliding into a waking dream. 

It was awe -- pure delight -- and utterly cavernous. The moon hung bulbous overhead. As Lilith danced beneath the Menoa Tree, creating his own light, Eragon felt the vastness of the heavens. He felt connected to something more, something bigger. 

Murtagh’s hand was the only thing grounding him. When Lilith’s golden eyes met theirs, a misty smile playing on his lips, Eragon thought the  _ Draumrae  _ felt a lot like being in love.

*

When the three of them stumbled back into their home, the sun was rising in the east. Eragon had to mutter the words that would shrink the tree bark back and open the door, because Murtagh’s arms were full of a very drowsy Lilith.

“Tag?” the elf mumbled through tired lips.

“I still have you,” Murtagh replied, voice gruff but full of affection.

“Did you see me?” Lilith asked. “Did you see me dance?”

“Of course I saw you. I could not look away.”

Eragon smiled to himself. He’d never felt more awake in his life, buzzing with energy after the intense waking dream. Lilith had danced the entire night until the moon sunk below the horizon of treetops. When it did, the golden glow around him faded and he’d collapsed to the ground with exhaustion. Eragon and Murtagh had been the first ones to his side.

“Here, Murtagh,” Eragon kept his tone low, trying not to disturb their lover. “I should heal his feet before we sleep.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. He laid Lilith gently down on their shared bed, a soft thing stuffed with feathers that took up the whole back room. Lilith sighed, eyes fluttering shut as he sunk into the mattress. They both looked down at his bare feet, which were covered in cuts and bruises from the forrest floor.

“You have the energy for that right now?” Murtagh asked Eragon.

“I feel like I could best you a thousand times over with one hand behind my back,” Eragon confessed. “You do not?”

Murtagh shook his head. “I just stood in a field all night and watched Lilith dance, why would I feel anything but fatigue? You’re the one that went into some sort of trance.”

Eragon chuckled. “I suppose you’re still a bit too human to experience it.”

Murtagh’s brow furrowed, and Eragon was seized by the urge to smooth it out. He leaned over, conscious of Lilith lazily watching them, and stood on his toes to press his lips to Murtagh’s forehead.

“And I love you that way, fool.”

When Eragon pulled away, a slight pink was splashed across Murtagh’s cheekbones.

Lilith gave a delicate whining noise from where he lay on the bed. His mind reached out to Eragon’s, bringing up the color blue along with the feeling of Eragon’s lips pressed against his own. The elf still preferred to communicate this way most times, speech difficult after centuries of living without language. Eragon smiled and decided to satisfy him.

He leaned down and kissed Lilith chastely, reveling in the warmth.

“Impatient little creature,” Eragon spoke with a smile against Lilith’s lips.

“Your fault,” Lilith snapped back.

At least, he tried to snap. His voice came out sleepy and content as he chased after Eragon’s lips. 

“Hold on my flower,” he chuckled. “I have to take care of your injuries.”

Eragon pulled back and Murtagh took his place, crawling into bed next to the small elf. Lilith immediately cuddled into his chest. Murtagh wrapped his arms around him and Lilith hummed. His eyes slid shut even as his lips moved again.

“Did  _ you  _ watch me A’gon?” he asked. 

Lilith still struggled with Eragon’s name. He just sent Eragon that blue feeling of warmth in his mind, and Eragon knew Lilith was talking about him.

“I did,” Eragon smiled. “You made me hear the Moon, Lily. Like Murtagh said, I couldn’t look away.”

Lilith broke into a grin. “Tag is always looking.”

Eragon belted out a laugh while Murtagh flushed red. The Red Rider only tightened his hold on the elf though, pressing his nose into soft white hair.

Eragon sat down at the end of the bed, lightly touching the top of Lilith’s right foot.

_ “Waíse heill,” _ he murmured.

The magic flowed easily from his fingertips and he heard Lilith sigh as the pain eased away. Once Eragon finished with the other foot, he crawled up on the soft mattress until he was laying next to both his lovers.

All it took was one look at Murtagh for him and Eragon to be in agreement. Murtagh gently unwound his arms from around Lilith, which caused the elf to pout but otherwise not complain. Eragon suspected he was too tired; in the past few months Lilith had grown extremely comfortable begging for attention. Eragon and Murtagh had grown extremely comfortable indulging him.

They tugged at the edges of Lilith’s gossamer gown, and together managed to pull the garment over his head. Eragon tried not to let his eyes linger on the silver scars that littered the entirety of Lilith’s body. They shimmered slightly in the morning light. He didn’t know if he would ever get used to the sight of the torture his elf had endured.

Eragon let his eyes slide to Murtagh instead, who was pulling his formal tunic over his own head. His bare torso looked as inviting as a royal feast.

Murtagh caught him staring as soon as the shirt was tossed to the ground. He smirked.

“You look like you want to eat me,” his low voice rumbled.

Eragon felt himself flushing. “Maybe I do.”

Murtagh reached across Lilith to flick him on the shoulder, unable to hide his full smile.

“Not tonight, insatiable beast,” Murtagh glanced down at the naked elf, whose golden eyes were hidden by silky eyelids. “You seem to be the only one that isn’t tired.”

“You love that.”

“Maybe I do,” Murtagh grinned as he repeated Eragon’s line.

Eragon let himself collapse back onto the mattress, chewing on a smile. Murtagh mirrored him, Lilith in between them. It reminded Eragon of the first time they’d slept together on the road from Daret, all those months ago. Murtagh and Eragon laced their fingers together over Lilith’s bare waist.

“Goodnight flower,” Murtagh pressed his lips to Lilith’s ear, and Lilith gave a soft smile. 

“The sun is up,” he replied sleepily.

Eragon found himself grinning as his partners drifted off to sleep. His smile was so big his cheeks ached. He felt Saphira from far away as she returned from a hunt with Thorn, and he knew the morning would be beckoning from outside. But he allowed his gaze to rest on the two people that mattered most to him, not worrying about the outside world in the slightest.

For the first time in over seven years, Eragon knew he was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I might do more for this verse if y'all think it's worth it. I definitely wanna write more for Eragon/Murtagh (underrated as hell). This was super fun to write and hope you guys thought it was fun to read! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a comment n come say hi :)


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